While I Was Away
by EXY.Uli
Summary: In which John is traumatized, Sherlock is guilty, Mycroft is sheepish, Mummy is distraught, and Anthea just needs a night off. Needless to say, Harry is not impressed. Post-Reichenbach. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

_For Arianne. :) _

**Synopsis:** In which John is traumatized, Sherlock is guilty, Mycroft is sheepish, Mummy is distraught, and Anthea just needs a night off. Needless to say, Harry is not impressed. Post-Reichenbach.

**Disclaimers:** TV series "Sherlock", inspired by the Arthur Conan Doyle's _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_, belongs to BBC. Harry Potter and its characters belong to the brilliant JK Rowling. No infringement -Reichenbach

**Note: **After reading "An Impossible Family", I was quickly inspired to write a Potterlock fanfic which sets after Reichenbach Falls. Really, I have no idea where this fic comes from; I don't normally do humour. In any case, this is my attempt to be funny and if it fails…well… There may be mentions of Supernatural too, but it's not really a SuperPotterLock fic. That is for another day. Enjoy.

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**CHAPTER ONE: THE OWL, THE FIREPLACE, AND THE METAMORPHEGUS **

_**Three years after Reichenbach Falls…**_

It is All Hallow's Eve. Mycroft Holmes sits in his usual leather arm chair by his fireplace, a half empty glass of whiskey in one hand, and a phone in another. The black umbrella resting against his leg is never from his reach. He's expecting a text, or a call. Either one, it will be over soon.

His secretary is not there at the moment. This is the only night in the year when she expects a break, as stated in her contract. Mycroft does not blame her. In fact, he understands completely. It is All Hallow's Eve. Yet, if she knew what he chose not tell her, she would opt to stay in with him. Anyway, it doesn't matter now. Tonight she is not needed.

The minute hand on the grandfather clock strikes twelve; Mycroft feels something twist and wither inside him. No, it can't be. It should've arrived by now, but no call or text came.

Instead, there is a man beside him. In a blink of an eye, he is there, occupying a space that originally holds nothing be air. No announcement is made of his entrance except for that faint familiar crack.

Mycroft jolts up, staring wide-eyed at the man, who neither frowns nor smiles at him, but he can see in the man's green eyes something he has always hated seeing. Disappointment. But at least it's not grief. Relief flushes through his body.

"S-so." Mycroft stutters, something only a handful of people has ever witnessed, "If you're here, then I'm guessing he's alright."

"Not even a hello?" His words imply hurt, but the man does not sound a least bit offended. Amused rather. "You're brother is already home getting an earful from Mummy. As will you. Now, arrange for someone to fetch Doctor Watson." The man draws from his coat pocket a letter. "It's time we all show our hands, don't you think?"

Mycroft sighs, "Yes. Yes of course, Dad."

000

000

000

When John wakes up in the middle of the night, he knows immediately something is not right.

There is a presence in the room with him, and it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on its ends.

He doesn't reach for his gun that's tucked under his pillow, which would be his normal first instinct, because the presence is something akin to familiar, homely.

"Sherlock?" He calls out to the darkened room. There is no response, and though John expects nothing more, he still fights the urge to bawl at the cold silence.

_Tap tap. _

This time, he does reach for his gun and turns on his bed lamp.

_Tap tap._

John turns to the window of his third story bedroom, and blinks.

_Hoot! Hoot!_

_What in the world… _

Perched on the outside windowsill is a brown-grey speckled eagle owl, persistently pecking at the window with its beak. It stops when John approaches the window, but continues to glare in a positively annoyed fashion.

"You're an owl." John mutters incredulously.

The bird's glare sharpens, and for a split second, John thinks it looks exactly like his diseased friend. He can almost hear Sherlock's miffed drawl, _yes John, I am an owl. Do try to keep up._

"Sherlock?" He presses a hand against the cold glass. The bird hoots, unimpressed.

Maybe it's because it's three in the morning, maybe it's because there's at least a feet of snow outside despite it being only few hours after Halloween (because greenhouse gas induced climate change is coming to bite all of them in the arse), or maybe it's because his sanity has officially left 221B Baker Street (because there is no way that this owl is Sherlock), but John doesn't think twice before opening the window to invite in the animal.

_Wild animal._ He speculates, because who keeps owls for pets? Then again, Sherlock kept human heads in the fridge beside the leftover lasagna, and there's still a human skull sitting on the fireplace mantel downstairs so maybe John shouldn't talk.

_Going barmy, Watson. Might be institutionalized soon. _He thinks depressingly to himself.

The animal flaps its wings twice, and lands on his shoulder, startling him, "Oi! Not on me, you blasted bird! Get off!"

The poor doctor attempts to shoo the thing, but the owl, nonplussed, drops something against his feet, and pecks at his ear for his poor attitude which elicited a frustrated cry of _Fuck! _from John, before flying through the open window and off into the November night.

_Well, what the bloody hell just happened – _

John pauses and stares at the small square envelope against his bare feet. He hesitates to pick it up, but curiosity has always gotten the best of him before. Inspecting the letter once, and seeing the ink calligraphy on the front addressing _**Dr. John Hamish Watson**, _John decides that he better make some tea, because sleep is not going to happen tonight.

000

000

000

It's been three years.

Much has changed since the incident on St. Bart's roof top, and in many ways, much has stayed the same. Like the flat, which is kept in the exact fashion as it had been left by Sherlock, and his room especially, locked and preserved for his return. But that had been back when John nursed the delusion that he could just come home one day and Sherlock would be lounging there on the couch, donned in his robes or that flippant white sheet, asking John to fetch him his phone or make tea, or some other equally ridiculous request.

It's been three years.

The last of his hope has just about ebbed away to nothingness. Mourn as he might for the rest of his remaining days, John still lives, and that means breathing, eating, sleeping. He's gotten a permanent position as a trauma surgeon with Mike Stamford's help; the intermittent tremor in his left hand only ceases during the thrill of surgery, between those hours when he tastes what it feels like to live with a purpose again. When he swallows each bite of the food he doesn't want to eat, when he wakes up each morning to drag his limping leg to work, he tells himself he's doing this for Sherlock. Because the detective's cold, distinct, well-balanced mind would've scoffed at the illogical stagnancy of wallowing in mourn forever.

"Sherlock?!" He calls again in the kitchen, however ludicrous. "Are you there?" He doesn't understand why he feels that presence tonight, of all nights.

John sits down on his chair, the letter in his lap, the living room dim save for the light coming from one lamp. There is no particularly reasion why after so long of him trying to acknowledge Sherlock's – death – that he would fall back into his old rut. But tonight he hopes.

_**Dr. John Hamish Watson.** _

John flips the letter over, inspects it and flips it back. He doesn't know if he should read it, and he is at loss of who send it. There are three options waiting for him, two of which is physically impossible.

First, everyone knows Sherlock loved his smart phone more than he loved his own brother (probably), so he would never go through something as tedious as training an owl to deliver mail. Besides, he's dead.

In that respect, so is Jim Moriarty, thus it can't be him that's screwing with John's already suffering sleep patterns at 3:16 a.m.

The most probable explanation is that Mycroft needs a word with him, but as Sherlock once said '_Mycroft never texts if he can call', _and last time John checked, his phone is functioning perfectly, so why would Mycroft use an _owl _out of all of God's bloody creations to contact John.

Sighing, John runs his hand once through his hair and opens the letter. Inside was a hastily written note in ink calligraphy again.

_** Dear Dr. Watson, **_

_** I believe it is time we meet. My sons are idiots. Please come to Number 12 Grimmauld Place immediately. **_

_** Apologizing ahead of time for Albus's stupidity, **_

_** Harry Potter **_

_Well that makes about as much sense as a bucket load of crap, and who the hell is Albus? More importantly, who the hell is Harry Potter? _John swears he's never heard of a bloke named such, and by the ordinary sounding name itself, John imagines this Harry is also equally ordinary. But…he quickly backtracks, how ordinary can a man be if his preferred method of communication in the 21 century is by owl post.

_Oh god please, not another criminal master mind._ His fragile little heart barely survived the last one. John almost wants to chug down his scalding tea at the thought.

_Maybe_, a cynical little voice says in his head, a _criminal master mind isn't such a bad idea. Maybe he could just shoot me dead and I won't have to put up with the broken heart, the insomnia, the psychosomatic limp, and the pecking owls that deliver mails in the middle of the night that don't make a lick of sense._ _Bugger this. _

John snorts, at least he knows now that this isn't Mycroft pulling a fast one on him. Of course not, he mentally chides himself, if Mycroft really needs to talk to him, he can always count on Anthea to pluck him from the street and sometimes coerce him into one of Mycroft's many black cars –

The fireplace explodes with green puffs of smoke as something lands in it.

John jumps three feet into the air, tea cup flying, and hot tea spilling on his pants making him look like he wet himself. He ends up bracing himself to fight, wishing now he brought his gun from upstairs. He wonders briefly if Mrs. Hudson is awakened by the commotion.

And speaking of Anthea….

"The Floo definitely needs repair. I better remind James." Mycroft Holme's secretary mumbles to herself as she steps out of the fireplace, dusting the grey charcoal bits off of her cloak…and pointed hat.

John would say he's seen stranger, but he really hasn't.

Abducting him on the street is one thing, but sliding down his chimney like Santa Claus while dressed like the Wicked Witch of the West is completely nutter, even for Anthea.

Okay, maybe this is Mycroft pulling a fast one on him.

Anthea looks vastly relieved at the sight of the opened letter, "Oh good, you read the note. Mr. Potter was afraid taking a cab to Grimmauld Place would be too confusing, so here I am. No night off when you work for Mycroft Holmes."

Or maybe he's dreaming.

"This is a dream. I'm still dreaming, aren't I?"

The woman fixes him with a level stare, not the one she used when he attempted to ask her out the first time they met, but something one would use on a slow monkey repeatedly running into a brick wall. "Merlin's flannel pajama pants, John. You're awake. Stop being obtuse and let's go."

John opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again.

"I have a door, you know. For entering a house. I know Mycroft is the British Government, but there are still laws against breaking and entering – well, I don't know if sliding down the chimney is considered –"John is rambling, and he knows that, but this is 3 in the morning, and there is only so much strangeness a man can take in one night before he starts hyperventilating.

If Anthea was annoyed before, her tone is now downright flippant, "Come on now, John, close your mouth and get over here! The faster you go to Grimmauld Place, the faster I can return to my party. No rest even on Hallow's Eve! This is sacrilegious!"

Party. That explains the witch costume, but it still doesn't explain why Anthea is suddenly travelling like Santa Claus or cursing the pants of Camelot's magician every other sentence.

"Oh for Merlin's sake!" Anthea grabs John by the arm and pulls him into the fireplace. Before John can even protest or struggle, she has already thrown down a handful of grey powder, whilst calling, "Number 12 Grimmauld Place."

000

000

000

John doesn't think he'll ever know what it feels like to be sucked through a vacuum tube like a dust bunny, but being pulled through the fireplace probably comes pretty close. Anthea's grip on his shoulder is like iron clasps through the spiraling journey, and John thinks he must've been screaming bloody murder the entire way, because the second their feet hit solid earth again, Anthea lets go, and John literally stumbles to the ground. The scream dies in his throat as he grasps onto the first tangible object, which happens to be a shag sitting room carpet.

"_A DISGRACE! MUGGLE IN MY HOUSE! GET OUT! GET OUT!" _

John jerks up as the banshee like shriek pierces his eardrums. The solider in him compels him to conduct a quick area scan, and he quickly realizes he is standing in an empty living room, with century old furnitures, dark wood floors, rich green curtains draping from the left wall windows, and a giant painting of a severe (and rather demented ) woman.

_Funny, _thinks John, _I could've sworn someone was shrieking. Although considering all that's happened, it could've been Anthea – _

"_MUGGLE! LEAVE MY HOUSE! YOU ARE NOT WELCOMED!" _

For the second time in one night, John leaps into the air, backs straight into Anthea, and jumps again. "T-the painting! I-It's yelling at me! Where the fuck are we?! What have you done to me!?" Remembering Baskerville, he pulls at Anthea's robe collar, pupil full blown, forsaking his manners towards a lady as he shakes her vehemently, "What kind of drug did you inject in me?! Where's Mycroft?! AND WHY IS THE PAINTING YELLING AT ME!?"

John can practically feel his rapid furious pulse shooting up his carotid arteries, and his heart thrashing against his rib cage. His palm is sweating something fierce, and as he listlessly wipes at his forehead, he feels a cold sheen of dew forming there.

His companion gives him an exasperated although sympathetic stare and sighs, "Please ignore Great-great- Aunt Welburga, Doctor. It's the Slytherin in her, she can't help it, I should know. I did not think we would come through his particular fireplace. Since Mr. Potter asked for you, I had hoped – "

"Merlin, how many times – oh, it's only you Ani." A man pokes his head through the door, mouth pressed thin, bags under his eyes, obviously miffed. Right in front of John's eyes, his brown hair turns a fiery shade of red. "Let's go before great-great Aunt Welburga throws another fit."

"Sorry, Teddy, did we wake you?" Anthea's marble like expression changed instantly. "I didn't know you were staying over."

Only by sheer will power does John not let his jaw hang loose as he watches 'Ani' smiling sheepishly at this Teddy fellow, thus expressing true emotion for the first time in front of the poor ex army doctor. Before this, John has harboured a rather rubbish notion that maybe Anthea is truly some super tech cyborg designed by Mycroft's government. It's ironic that just when John decides Anthea is not truly human (after the whole fireplace travelling, mad painting screaming disaster, how is John to think otherwise), that she disproves his cyborg theory by smiling so vivaciously.

"I wasn't initially, what with Uncle Harry coming back and the whole Albus fiasco, but Victoire got called last minute to France to visit her sick aunt who's come down with a nasty case of dragon-pox. With Gram and Pops in Egypt for vacation, I just can't handle Remy alone now that he's in this phase."

Teddy moves away from the door, and it is then that John sees it, the squirming _thing _Teddy is holding.

Dressed in a green cotton onesie, is a – dare John say it – humanoid baby boy, flailing his webbed limps about fussily. Where his baby mouth should've been is a pale orange beak.

John feels the growing urgency to wake up. This has to be a dream. It just has to be. Cyborg is one thing, but splicing children with animals! Ducks, even! This can't be real!

"Uhm," Anthea looks worriedly between John and Remy, and then shares a guilty look with Teddy, "perhaps this was too much for one night."

"Oh!" Teddy's hair suddenly turns bright yellow, starting from his scalp and quickly overrides the red. He shifts Remy in his arms and extends out a hand, "Is this the muggle healer everyone's been hearing so much about? Excuse my manners, Teddy Lupin."

The baby quacks.

There's a muffled thud as John promptly faints.

000

000

000

"_I think he's finally coming around." _

"_Oh good. It's been over fifteen minutes. I had started to worry that maybe he concussed himself falling down. Someone should fetch the potions from the cupboards for his head." _

John hears voices. Floating voices he doesn't recognize.

"_Goddamn it, Ani what did you do?!" _

This one, he does. The same voice that reminds him of velvet sliding against gravel, but it can't be. Sherlock's dead.

"_Nothing! I did exactly as James told me! It wasn't my fault the Floo brought us to the wrong room." _

Anthea. He hears Anthea too.

"_John, John, can you hear me?" S_omeone's knuckles rub against his sternum, trying to wake him, "John? John."

Slowly, the doctor opens his eyes. His vision clears and he zones in on the face in front of him. Anthea. "Sherr…Sherlock."

"No Doctor Watson. It's me…An…Anthea."

"But… I heard him. I heard his voice. Sherlock…"

John shakes his head, and sits up as his senses return to him, giving him enough mental capacity to survey his surrounding. He is in the same room that he arrived in, but there are no longer shrieking portraits of demented old woman. The man kneeling over him has normal brown hair again, nothing atrocious like red or yellow, and there is no humanoid duck boy in sight. Perhaps it was a weird dream. He has been feeling out of sorts lately. The doctor swallows thickly, understanding that this means Sherlock is still dead and his hope is once again crushed.

"But I could've sworn…" He trails off. The devastation settles in the pit of his stomach, like he is standing beneath St. Barts all over again, watching his best friend plummet towards his death.

John runs both of his hands across his face and then through his blonde hair, clutching them with bruising strength. Waking up this way and realizing that Sherlock's not there, is like reliving those first delirious moments, is like seeing the blood soak into the pavement, is like reaching for his wrist and finding no pulse. The ghastly stillness of death, in utter contrast to the crowd and chaos around him, makes him want to retch his guts out and just disappear.

"Ani, should we –"

"Give him a moment, cousin."

There is a loud pop and another person, _creature,_ is in the room with them. John looks up, and standing in front him, is a short, grimly looking thing with a long crooked nose and large flappy ears.

Fuck, this is starting to look more and more Alice in Wonderland by the second. When is he EVER going to WAKE UP!

Anthea grimaces beside him, "What is it, Kreacher?"

"Master Potter requests Mr. Muggle's presence in the study." Kreacher, the creature, responds with distaste, "Muggle…"

_Muggle? _

"Kreacher! You will not address Doctor Watson like that!" Teddy scolds. Kreacher hisses, and then disappears with another pop.

Watching two other people in the room speaking nonchalantly to the creature, enlightenment finally dawns on John. For the first time that night since the owl appeared outside his window, John suspects that the situation he is in is far more complex than Mycroft Holmes pulling the world's most elaborate and cruel prank or even him losing his mind.

"What was that?" He needs some answers and he needs them now.

"Come on, Doctor. Let's go. We shouldn't keep Mr. Potter waiting." Anthea hooks one hand under his arm and pulls him off the floor.

The doctor is having none of it. "No, no, not until you give me some answers. Where is the screaming portrait that was hanging over the sofa? And the duck baby –"

"Duck baby? Hey, that's my boy you're talking about!" Teddy yelps indignantly.

"Shut up you!" John shushes the metamorphegus. "And who the hell are you people?!"

"I already told you who I am – "

"I'm not talking to you," John held up a hand rather rudely. _Great, I've picked up on all of Sherlock's worst habits._

John curses. He's dubious as to how much of his flatemate's brilliance has rubbed off onto him, but evidently, the consulting detective's habit of cutting off people during conversation has been passed onto John through osmosis (and that doesn't even make scientific sense). Spinning to face Mycroft Holmes' assistant (if that's really who she is at all) John rises to his full height of five feet eight and puts his foot down.

No more bullshit.

"Who are you? And don't tell me Anthea, 'cause we all know that's not your name."

"Oh, is that why he keeps calling you that? Here I thought he was just confused from the Floo trip." Teddy chuckles.

"Shut up!" John yells.

Anthea's face is impassive again, "Do you want to know _who _I am or _what _I am?"

"Both would be great."

"I'm not authorized to disclose such information."

"Bollocks!" John yells again.

"No, she's right. Statute of Secrecy and everything." Teddy backs up his cousin with a shrug, "Although, with Albus being his flatmate, I'm sure the statute is about to be null and void any day now."

John's brows furrow, "What...who? Statute of what? Okay, just tell me who you are then. Your name. Or is that against some statute of mysterious intent too?"

Anthea, or Ani, sighs, "My name is Antares Malfoy, but you can continue to call me Anthea if it makes any difference."

"Antares…Malfoy…right." John slowly nods, "And did I really see a screaming portrait and a duck baby?"

Teddy lets out a frustrated groan, "My son is a ministry registered metamor-"

Anthea, er, Antares, responds with a straight face. It's like a switch turns out in her brain and she is back to secretary mode again, "Yes."

"How –"

Teddy chooses that moment to clap John on the back, "Dr, there is plenty of time to discuss the many quirks of this old place later, but right now there is somewhere you and dear Ani here need to be."

Down the rabbit hole and into Wonderland then. "Riiight… and remind me where I am again and who I'm here to see."

The tip of Anthea's lips curl upwards, "We are currently at Number 12 Grimmauld Place curtsey of Mr. Harry Potter."

**TBC**

**Thanks for reading. Please leave a review. :) **


	2. Chapter 2

I didn't think this story would be so popular! Thanks guys for your favs and follows and reviews. I literally wrote it out of a whim, with my friend Arianne's help and suggestions of course. She's a sweetie. ;) Enjoy Chapter 2.

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**CHAPTER TWO: JOHN IN WONDERLAND**

Following Anthea down the corridor, John hears voices travelling from up ahead. There are two voices, a male and a female, both foreign.

"_What is he doing now?" _ The male voice is comforting, although a little tired and exasperated.

"_Sulking, in the library. Like always. I honestly don't understand where I went wrong with that boy. Perhaps confiscating his wand is a bit harsh…"_ The female one is mangled with intermittent sobs and sniffles, hinting of the tears John can't see.

"_Ginny, you confiscated his wand? You know he's always got a knack for the dramatic. It's no wonder he's sulking now. And for the record," _There are chuckles, "_I don't think confiscating his wand will stop him."_

John is beyond the point of confusion, beyond shock, beyond disbelief. He doesn't question the mentioning of wands, though it does raise an alarm in his head. The doctor just at takes in everything around him, trying to accept it the best he can, and not dissect it into pieces. There is no point. He'll never find the answer that satisfies him.

The house he is currently in is evidently old, probably belonging to the family for decades and even centuries. Beautiful, it indeed is, but not exactly sound proof. John takes a moment to examine the strong old architecture, from the hardwood flooring, to the vaulted ceiling. The walls are covered in rich crimson and gold wallpaper that reminds him something from the Victorian era, and decorated with photographs and paintings of the family. It may just be his imagination, but he swears every single person in the picture, including that one collie dog that appears numerous, seem to follow his movements with their eyes.

Creepy.

"_Where's Jamie? Wait until I get my hands on him! I'm taking away that awful umbrella of his! Letting him play with Hagrid's umbrella was a terrible mistake." _

"_He disappeared the minute we came into the house. I daresay he went to find Al, or Lily. She's always been the toughest out of all of them. Although this time, I believe her judgment is equally poor as the other two idiots'. Keeping this from us, what were they thinking…"_

The woman now borders hysteria again.

"_Oh Harry, you've no idea what it's been like! It was horrible! Dead! My boy, dead! Al, the nerve of him, said I was overreacting!? How can I not be upset? What mother won't be upset!?" _

John feels his heart clench. They must be talking about Sherlock. This woman must be the infamous Mummy the Holmes brother bicker so heatedly over. The man, John guesses, must be this mysterious Mr. Potter. The 'Al' fellow is sounding like quite the bloody git, calling Mummy 'overreacting.'

_So this visit is about Sherlock after all._ John swallows thickly. He doesn't want to talk about Sherlock; he'll never be ready to talk about Sherlock. To speak of the consulting detective as one of the dead put him in the past, between the yellow pages of history where he doesn't belong. Sherlock Holmes is not over. Not for John. He is not over.

Bitterly, the doctor thinks that Mycroft is behind this, but if John won't even open up to his therapist, what in the world makes Mycroft think that he'll confide in complete strangers?

He stops in front of a pair of tall oak doors, painted burgundy and old, with oxidizing copper knobs.

"Do come in, Doctor Watson. I've been expecting you. Antares you too." The man's voice projects from behind closed doors. John is starting to get a bad vibe from this man. Who is he exactly, and how can he know…

"Standing there frowning at the door won't answer any of your question, Doctor Watson. Please, come in."

John breathes, and tries not to question how the man can possibly know that. He turns to Anthea, who looks equally as uncertain as he does. There is a glint in her eyes akin to fear, John is shocked to see, and it only goes to increase his own discomfort. If Anthea is scared, then he surely should be too.

"John," Anthea speaks as if she just read his mind (really he won't be surprised if she can), "Mr. Potter is a good man – kind, righteous, full of love – but you must remember that the Master of Death is not one to be trifled with."

John chokes, "Come again? The master of what – "

For the second time that night, he reaches for his side where his gun normally tucks and fisting the empty cloth. Like he once said, he is a doctor but he had bad days, and today is definitely a bad day.

"You're not in danger," The woman beside him appeases, "but if you were, trust me doctor, your gun won't save you." She opens the door, and John allows himself to shudder once before following her inside.

Mr. Harry Potter turns out to be nothing like John imagined. Though obviously older than John, he does not look a day over fifty, wearing a pair of dark slacks and an untucked grey shirt. He stands in front of the roaring fireplace with a glass of some caramel colored liquor in one hand and the other hand twiddling something in his pocket. Bespectacled with a pair of ridiculously round and old glasses, he is all gentle smiles and easy gait. The only thing different about him than any other middle aged father in London is the lightning bolt scar above his brows half covered by his head full of messy unruly black hair, slightly graying at the temples.

"Hello John. May I call you John?" His greeting is warm and genuine.

"Yes. Yes I suppose that's alright. You must be Mr. Potter." The doctor clears his throat and shifts his stance. Standing at attention. A military man through and through.

"Harry, just Harry."

Harry, just Harry, Potter, extends his hand, and John steps forward and shakes it. Through his life, he's shaken thousands of hands, as a doctor, as a solider, as a consulting detective's sidekick, and he's can tell a lot of the person from just a simple shake. When Mr. Potter grasps his hand, John registers nothing. Nothing. He shakes the hand, hold it in his fingers, sees it there, but as he lets go, John can't recall the touch, can't describe it, as if he hasn't done it at all. The worst part is that he can't shake of the feeling that there is something _acutely_ otherworldly and _supernatural_ about this Harry Potter.

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you." Harry smiles. His eyes sweep over John casually, but John stiffens nevertheless. The intensity of the gaze is inescapable. John's been glanced at this way before, like a bar code being scanned by the machine that retrieves all the data from it. Briefly, he is reminded of his first encounter with Sherlock before Mr. Potter's jade green eyes finally meet his. For a split moment the ex army doctor cannot breathe, cannot move, cannot even think. A coldness overrides his senses, ripping through him like a tide of black water. The possession paralyzes everything. Then, Harry blinks, and the moment is over, leaving John gasping as if an invisible hand had just touched his soul.

"This is my wife, Ginny." Harry places a comforting hand on the woman sitting in the armchair beside.

'Pretty' is the first world that comes to John's mind. Even though she must be about the same age as her husband, nearing her fifties, the wife is still a very lovely woman, supporting a crown of fiery red hair and good clean complexion. Compared to her husband though, she appears so…normal. Harmless. Looking at her makes John wonder if he has somehow overreacted and imagined the whole episode with Harry.

John is wrong, of course, on all his accounts about Ginny Potter (except for the one about her being pretty, because she is very pretty), but he doesn't have to know that. Yet.

"Hello Dr. Watson." She dabs her cheeks with tissue and greets her guest with a reserved but firm little smile. "I apologize if you had to hear my rant earlier."

"No no it's not a problem at all, Mrs. ...Potter." John hesitates in the end. Okay, perhaps he is mistaken about her being the Holmes matriarch. So…this trip isn't about Sherlock?

John quickly reassesses his situation. Mr. Potter, the man of the house, is the one who invites him to this house. He obviously knows Anthea, and therefore Mycroft, seeing Anthea (he just can't get himself to call her Antares) has stated in the beginning '_no night off when you work for Mycroft Holmes'. _

Although there is a chance that this Ginny Potter's maiden name is Holmes, and in this day and age it is not unheard of for families to choose to name their children after their mother's name, but looking at his hosts again, John mentally concludes they can't be Sherlock's parents. Both of them appear much too young, especially this Harry fellow.

Now the question repeats, why is he here? Is this a case? A joke? What?

"Is there something wrong, Dr. Watson?" Ginny inquires with a frown, "You look troubled."

"Yes, well no, it's just that I assumed – no it's silly – but if I may ask, why am I here?" Though he asks, John is starting to think that he no longer wishes to know. "Is this Mycroft's doing? Is this…this is about Sherlock?"

Ginny tilts her head, genuinely perplexed, "Mycroft? Sherlock? I'm sorry, did Ani not inform you? I assume you are here because of Albus."

"Albus." John deadpans. He takes in a deep breath. Now he just wants to go home. There's obviously been some communication error on Anthea's part. Or Mycroft's. It's highly likely that the pressure of running the British nation is finally getting to Mycroft's head, or maybe he's becoming senile. Early onset Alzheimer's. Whatever. "I don't know any Albus. _Anthea _here, if you don't already know, just forces me to go places. She doesn't actually tell me anything, whether it's because she works for the secretive twat that is Mycroft Holmes or because of some statute of mysterious intent – I don't know. I'm sorry; I think I'm going to go now, because there has to be a mistake."

"Stay John, there is no mistake." A familiar drawl stops him on his way out.

Mycroft Holmes steps out from the other doorway to the left of the fireplace, looking particularly… sheepish under Harry Potter's stern gaze.

"Where is your sister, James?" Harry asks.

"As if you don't know…" The older Holmes kicks at the carpet moodily.

John gapes. Is Mycroft actually….pouting? And how ghastly _alike _the Holmes brothers look when they pout! What is happening to this world? John is so busy having a mental rave over this revelation that his cognitive ability catches up slower than usual. Wait – what? James? Sister? Oh, hello logical cognition, how nice of you to join the rest of the brain cells again.

"James!" Ginny Potter uses a tone that John labels as the 'don't-get-snippy-with-me-mister/little lady', tone that his own mother often exercised when projecting her rage towards Harriet or him (but mostly just Harriet). Does this mean Ginny _is _Mycroft's mother? If so, how? How is that possible?

Needless to say, John is seriously confused. "James?" He squeaks.

"Lily is in the library with Albus, Mummy. Protecting him, she claims." Then in a louder voice, he calls, "Sister dearest, Dad is home, won't you come out and say hello and give our ol' Dad a hug?"

Unless John seriously misunderstood the conversation that just went on in this study, it is fair to establish that Harry and Ginny Potter are in fact Mycroft Holmes' parents, which makes Ginny the infamous Mummy, and Harry the 'Dad-that-we-must-never-speak-off-so-poor-John-will-never-find-out'. By reasonable deduction, given the information that Sherlock is Mycroft's blood brother, these two individual (no matter how improbable) are Sherlock's parents as well. Better still, the Holmes brothers – oh excuse John, the Potter brothers – even have a sister, Lily.

A thought struck the doctor. He considers Sherlock his best friend, and he is (probably) Sherlock's only friend. If this indeed is Sherlock's family, why has the detective never mentioned them before when John was made acquaintance with Mycroft not even twelve hours after he's met Sherlock. Better yet, why hasn't the family contacted him before? Why now, after three years of Sherlock's passing? Information perhaps? Of their son's death? Of the fall? But what can they possibly extract from him that they can't get from Mycroft? And finally, why are they calling Mycroft James?!

_Yeah no, that's not possible. Bollocks. There's not a chance in hell I'm going to figure this out on my own, so fuck this shit. I'm just going to go with it. I'll drink tea with the Mad Hatter and paint roses for the Queen. Remember Alice, John, just go with it. _

One thing is for sure, John can conclude after experiencing what he had in the last hour, nothing about the Holmes (it doesn't matter what they call themselves, a Holmes is a Holmes), is truly as it seems. He has a feeling that this is just the tip of the iceberg, and there are lots of mysteries waiting to be unraveled.

The door behind Mycroft opens and shuts, and out comes a younger woman about Anthea's age, with the same prettiness and fiery red hair as Ginny who gives Harry one look and throws her arms around him, "Dad! Oh Daddy I missed you! Are those nasty Leviathan's taken care of? And the winged one, what happened to him? Oh gosh, I missed you. Uncle D is rather needy, isn't he? Always taking you from us."

"Lils, I missed you too." Harry pats his only daughter's hair and chuckles at her questions, "Yes everything is good and dandy now." Then his expression turns sour, "Young lady, don't think you can distract me from the big mess you and your brothers made. This is not over! Albus's brilliant idea, I believe he calls it, it has your signature written all over it!"

Lily wails defensively, "Dad! It's not me this time! It was all James and Albus, I swear!"

"So quick to sell me out, sister? I am hurt, Lily. Is there no more loyalty one can count on?"

This time, John knows he's not dreaming or hallucinating. This is Sherlock's voice he hears and it's in this room.

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Come out you bastard! Where …" John freezes mid stride, "Sweet Jesus mother of God, there's a face in the fire. Sherlock's face is in the fire."

"Astute observation, John."

The orange and red flames burn an iridescent green, and in the fire is a well recognized, well loved face. John can construct no logical explanation for what he's seeing, other than him tripping on some serious LSDs, but his shock is somewhat subdued. In crude terms, he is no longer 'flipping shit' like he did when 'Aunt Welburga' cussed at him from her spot on the painting or when Teddy introduced him to his duck of a son. One can only be surprised so many times before ceasing to be affected. It's best, John learns, to just accept what he sees now and question about it later (preferably when he has his hands around Sherlock's neck, demanding answers)

"Hello John."

The army doctor approaches the fireplace, eyes wide and mouth open. The heat and smoke stings his eyes a bit, and he feels like he's going to cry. He doesn't even realize it when he's kneeling in front of the fire, reaching into it to touch Sherlock's face.

"John, stop! You'll burn yourself." Sherlock warns.

"You're not real. You can't be real. I saw you fall, I felt your pulse. You're dead. It's not possible." The fire hisses as a tear dropped onto the amber. John hastily wipes at his chin. When did he start crying? In front of all these people, no less? Great, now Mycroft is shooting him smug looks. Ugh, embarrassing.

"Really, John after all you've seen tonight, you still think it's impossible for me to be alive? How's the head by the way? Did Teddy get you that potion?"

John laughs, but it comes out as frantic heaves. His hands hover dangerously close to the flames, just itching to reach out and feel the detective, burning wounds be damned. "Sherlock! Where are you?! Do you still have a body?! Or are you forever stuck in this fire form?" He can't believe what's coming out of his mouth. It sounds crazy, but this whole night has been crazy! Crazy he can deal with! Sherlock is alive! What else matters?!

Sherlock appears mildly annoyed and offended by John's insinuations, "Yes, I still have a body. This is merely a projection of me. I-"

"Then why won't you come out?!" John yells, "Why? Come out and face me! Show me that you're real!"

Sherlock's face scrunches up in a fashion that Harry, Ginny, James and Lily all recognize as the face he makes when he's about to cry. "This isn't how I would've wanted to return, John, you must understand. I had no choice –"

"COWARD!" John bellows, almost mad with need and joy and anger, "You leave, making everyone believe you are dead! Do you have any idea what it's been like for me? For Mrs. Hudson? For Lestrade? And now you're back, under the most ABSURD circumstances, and you are telling me you're too AFRAID to come out and face me! I deserve to know EVERYTHING, Sherlock! You OWE me that at least! An explanation of why you left me and everybody hanging for THREE WHOLE FUCKING YEARS!"

John continues to rage, compelled to dive head first into the fire and throttle the detective. He doesn't notice when the face in the fire disappears or the sound of the door opening and closing. Unexpectedly, there is a hand against his shoulder.

"John."

And there in front of him, supporting wild black hair, grey green eyes, bruised cheeks and a cut lip, is Sherlock Holmes.

000

000

000

"Sherlock."

"Yes John?"

Tentatively, the doctor pokes his friend in the chest. Solid. Firm. Real. "Oh god," His hand comes up to face as he bits down the urge to hyperventilate again, "Oh god, you are alive. Alive. I had hoped, but I didn't think – I mean it's been - "

Sherlock nods sincerely, affirming his friend, "Yes, John, I am alive, and I'm so, so sorry –"

_Pow!_ And the world's only consulting detective is on the ground, 's jaw, say hello to John's fist. John's fist, meet Sherlock's jaw.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES YOU BASTARD!" John practically roars. He leaps for the detective, tackling the man just as he tries to get back up from the ground. John has him in an elbow choke, screaming incoherently as he did so, something along the lines of _how could you_, _three years, nightmares, died, dead, gone. _Sherlock is actually turning somewhat blue under John's ministration, but he doesn't fight back as he should.

But someone cannot watch anymore.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

"Lily!" Ginny cries.

John watches in horror as the younger redhead raises a wooden stick and a lightning zaps him square in the chest. In a second, he's lost all control of his body, not in a sense that his neurons cease to fire, but that every muscle in his body turns into lead. Trapped within a frozen exterior and very much conscious, John can feel his body fall backwards onto the ground while he screamed bloody murder in his mind.

"Lily, really? Was that really necessary?" Mycroft drawls disapprovingly.

Ignoring her oldest brother, Lily turns to her other one, "You alright, Al?"

Coughing and heaving, Sherlock sits up and glares at his sister, "Yes, yes of course I'm alright! And what did you do that for?! He punched me, not Avada-ed me!" Sherlock is back up on his feet in a second, although he still clutches his jaw.

"He was choking you to death in some grievous fit, not that I blame him. So relax Albus, it was only a small petrificus. Child's play. Nothing detrimental, I swear. Your John will be good as new once the spell's lifted."

"Has anyone ever told you how excessive you are?" Sherlock flails.

His sister turns up her nose at him and crosses her arm, "Nobody messes with my family but me. Unappreciative git."

Sherlock glowers and something shifts in him. His chin dips a fraction of a centimeter lower and he mumbles something under his breath. Suddenly the wooden stick Lily's holding flies out of her hand and into Sherlock's waiting grasp. Somewhere in the background, John hears Harry mumble to his wife _I told you it wouldn't do any good. _

Huffing in frustration, Lily pouts, "Don't be a twat, Albus, give it back."

"Come and get it, if you can." Then as it to spite Lily even more, Sherlock waves her wand once at John, casting, "Finite Incantetum. John, are you alright?"

Gasping, John lurches upwards, "What. Just. Happened?"

"Albus, give me back my wand." Lily grits her teeth, which is suddenly unusually sharp "Don't make me hurt you."

"I'd like to see you try, sister. Wandless magic, Lily, or have you not mastered that yet?"

John swears that Lily's hazel eyes literally light up like the fire burning beside her. Even from his inconvenient position on the ground, John can see orange and yellow scales starting to crawl up the skin along her neck. His heart pounds louder as Lily opens her mouth and a strange hiss dialect comes out of her mouth. He's pretty it's not human.

"_Isss that a challenge?"_ Her pupils shrink into reptile-like slits.

"W-what's happening to her?" John backs away. The vibe she exudes is more frightening than the battlefields of Afghanistan.

Sherlock's hand twitches. Good god thinks John, the great detective looks uncertain, scared even. Between them, Mycroft scoffs. With a barely registered tap from his umbrella and no incantation at all, Lily's wand flies out Sherlock's hand and into his. Lily herself is pushed back by an invisible force from her previous predatory stance in front of Sherlock.

"Children." Mycroft gloats, but shrinks back an inch when Lily casts her deadly gaze upon him.

Without warning, both Lily's wand and Mycroft's own umbrella join Sherlock's already confiscated wand across the room and hover mid-air beside Harry where he perches calmly on Ginny's armrest, watching the scene unfold before him with great amusement. His wife just rolls her eyes as if what transpired happens on a regular basis.

There's a chorus of whiny _Dad!_ from the men and a equally whiny, although still kind of scary hiss from Lily.

"_That'ssss very good Lily. Your Parssseltongue is much improved." _Harry actually beams proudly and addresses her in the same strange language.

"_Thanksss, Dad." _Lily's whole face is on the verge of being covered in scales. Her hair and ears shrinks, as do her limps. She thrives under her father's compliment.

"Oh my god!" John can't help but exclaim. He wants to faint in horror and amazement at the same time.

"Harry!" Ginny chides, "Stop this before Dr. Watson has a heart attack."

"_Thatsss enough Lily." _Harry attempts to sound somewhat cross, but still manages to be actually quite proud of his little girl. The girl shakes her head, and she's back to normal again.

Mycroft and Sherlock might think they are stealthy, but John still sees the little breath of relief they both give. Sherlock even looks slightly miffed that Lily outshines him tonight.

Let me remind you that John is not as unobservant as Sherlock thinks he is, and by now he's pretty much figured out the situation. Not all of it of course, there are still so many little details he needs clarification on, but the basic, fundamental truth, he believes he's got it. It boils down to two things.

First, everyone he's seen tonight, including Anthea and Teddy (and probably his son as well) is a sorcerer. That may not be the politically correct term to describe them, but the wands, the hats, the moving paintings and the animal transformations, the weird grimly creature, and the talking fire concludes to one thing: this family is a family of magic users.

The second conclusion is that Harry Potter is a very powerful man.

John watched the little battle for dominance and brilliance between the siblings. Clearly, the ability the do…whatever it is they do without wands or incantations are a level beyond the ordinary. Sherlock has mastered the wandless. Mycroft, the wordless. It's highly likely that Lily's ability is perhaps rarer than her brothers', seeing that it made both of them rather on edge. (John suspects that it's only with the knowledge that Lily won't hurt her brothers that prevents the two men from running for their lives from her).

It's beyond scary to know that Harry Potter has mastered all those skills.

"That's enough from all of you." The older red head, most evidently fighting the urge to hit herself over the head with her own wooden stick, stands up, "Harry, sometimes I think you're as much of a child as the three of them."

Seeing his wife huff, Harry leans over to peck her apologetically on the cheek. "Sorry, hon."

Ginny blushes crimson, but can't help but smile, "Harry…"

Mycroft immediately begin to inspect his nails, Lily rolls her eyes and Sherlock has a mildly grossed out look on his face.

The redhead matriarch comes to John and pads his sympathetically on the arm, "Doctor Watson, perhaps you ought to rest for the night. I dare say it's been quite a ride for you. It's almost 4, but there's some time left for you to sleep. We shall get you accommodated. I hope you will forgive my family. They are quite the theatrical lot, wouldn't you agree, Ani?"

Anthea. John almost forgot about her. She's like wallpaper, quiet and inconspicuous.

"Y-yes, theatrical, I completely agree Aunt Ginny." Anthea nods fervently. She glances over at her boss.

"Now, Ani why don't you and James go to bed. Upstairs, second room to the left." Ginny dismissed nonchalantedly, but elicited the response she desired.

"MUMMY!" Mycroft is horrified. John has never heard him cry out in such an undignified manner. Even, Anthea, who is usually so nonplussed by everything, is rendered speechless.

Ginny raises her eyebrows, daring her son to challenge her, "Oh I'm sorry, did you want me to address you as _Mycroft? _And, what is it you went by amongst the Muggles, Ani? Oh yes, Anthea. Fine then. _Anthea, _please put_ Mr. Mycroft _to bed_." _

Lily giggles smugly. Mycroft is red from hairline to neckline as he and Anthea move towards the door with the same efficiency as a man running away from an impending volcanic eruption. He attempts to snatch his umbrella on the way out, but a stern look from Harry and he quickly changes his mind.

"Lily, you too. Off to bed." Ginny gives her daughter a gentle push.

"Now Albus," The mother faces her middle child, and John finally sees how tired and weary she truly is. "Make sure Dr. Watson is settled. Find him a spare room upstairs. Just…be good."

Sherlock's shoulders slump at his mother's sadness. Ginny is a slight woman at five feet three, but the entire of her son's lanky six feet two figure seems to be brought down by her tone. "Mummy, I –"

"Not tonight Albus. Go to bed." Ginny turns away and effectively dismisses him.

John follows Sherlock, trailing behind, Mycroft, Anthea and Lily.

Ginny's voice stings them one last time before they exit from the study, "Don't think for a moment that this is over, you four – yes Ani, you too. You lot caused this family a great deal of grief this past three years, so you better have a proper explanation for yourselves."

The iceberg is melting and for the time, John no longer questions Sherlock's ability to survive the fall.

**TBC**

**Thanks for Reading. Reviews are appreciated. Chapter three is going to be conversation oriented. Let me know what you think should go down between Sherlock and John. **


	3. Chapter 3

I just want to say thanks to everyone who reviewed. :) Wow, I honestly didn't think this story would get so many favs and follows after just two chapters. Your support has been most helpful. Arianne and I have been chugging out really great ideas and I'm super excited to write them. College doesn't exactly allow me to write all that much, but I try my very best to update soon. Sorry this chapter took 2 months to get put up. When Christmas rolls around, you know I'll be updating more. :) Just a note for chapter three, it is less comedic and more angst than the previous two chapters, and chapter four too, will be mostly angst, with some funny parts. Enjoy. :)

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**CHAPTER THREE: GOODNIGHT MOON**

The five of them made up the stairs as Mummy instructed. Mycroft and Anthea disappear into the second floor, Lily the third, and Sherlock and John do not stop until they reach the attic.

"_Bon nuit, Lily, Albus, John_." Anthea bids quietly. John has no idea why they suddenly switched to speaking in another language, but he guesses it's one of those things he'll have to find out later. He's not so uninformed as to not understand that _bon nuit _means goodnight in French, but unfortunately, the extent of his French skills ends there.

"_Bon nuit Ani_," Lily replies quiet. She pauses at the steps and comes over to her oldest brother to squeeze his arm gently, "_James, ce n'était pas ta faute_."

Mycroft's smile is pained. "_Mais ce ne veut pas dire qu'ils me pardonneront. __Albus surtout. Mais, merci Lily_." Then in a louder voice, he addresses the other two men as well as his sister, "Goodnight."

Mycroft retires to his room silently afterwards. His gait is slow and staggering. Anthea follows Mycroft to his door but no further. Instead, she leans against the wall, as if unsure where to go. Lily doesn't comment on anything, nor does she seem surprised. Merely, she ascends the stairs again.

The youngest Potter stops again on the third floor. This time she embraces Sherlock tightly and whispers in French for him to hear, "_Je suis heureuse que tu sois de retour_. _Tout ce que j'ai fait c'était pour te protéger. __ James aussi, il ne pense qu'a ton bien__. __Bon nuit, Al._" Then to John, she offers a consoling smile, "Goodnight Dr. Watson. Welcome to Grimmauld Place."

Then she too is gone. All that's left in the stairway is Sherlock and John, and neither is prepared for the moment when they are left alone. What is there to say? Three years worth of conversations and a lifetime worth of explanations. Yet all there exist between them in the darken hallway are the silver light of the Samhain moon, their long willowy shadows and a heavy awkward silence.

Finally, it is Sherlock who breaks it, by starting to walk further up the stairs.

John cuts his journey with his quiet words, "I know what you did back in the study, starting a fight for no reason with your sister. Your…father… fully intended for us to talk tonight, but you didn't want to talk, did you? Not to me at least."

"John, I didn't –"

"Take me back to Baker Street Sherlock. I want to go… home." John looks down at his feet. He had hesitated at the end of his sentence, but to call Baker Street anything else would be dishonesty. True the apartment belonged to Mrs. Hudson legally, and he lived there only through his relations with the detective, but Sherlock had died and left him, and Baker Street and its memories became the only things John had in his possessions of the brilliant man he once knew.

After Afghanistan, John had been broken. Sherlock wasn't broken, but he wasn't whole. Together, they shared pieces of each other and became whole again. Right again. But then Sherlock was gone, and John was broken once more, still desperate to hang on tight to the feeling of completeness. Baker Street was his lifeline, for he had nothing else.

Mrs. Hudson, bless the good woman, never once hinted at the idea of John shouldering Sherlock's half of the rent, because though it hurts the doctor to stay and be haunted by the ghosts of 221B Baker Street every day, it would quite assuredly kill him to leave. She has come to understand that John is family now and always, and this apartment is just as much of a home to the ex-army doctor as it is to her.

For John, it had all been very simple. Home was head in the fridge; home was chasing criminals down the streets of London; home was 17 different types of tea stored in the cupboards, home was screechy violin and impromptu text messages; home was Baker Street, because home was Sherlock Holmes.

Naively, he believed home was all of those things to Sherlock as well.

Three years go by and he stares at the friend he thought he knew best, the friend he thought he lost, and is chilled by knowledge that Baker Street may have transformed from _their _home into _John's _home without him even realizing. This man before him clearly has a real home with his real family in this great big Victorian mansion nothing akin to the small cramped flat.

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes. _

Who is Sherlock Holmes? How can you believe in someone who isn't real?

"Just take me back, Sher –Alb – whoever you are." But John doesn't really want that, not really. The last thing he wants is to leave, because if he does, things will never be okay again between him and Sherlock. So he stares up at the detective unwaveringly, daring Sherlock to let him go, but secretly praying he won't.

Sherlock says nothing. He walks up to John, unabashedly invading the shorter man's personal space, and his dark shadow towers over John.

"I would say you can't avoid me forever, but we all know that's not true. If you want you can disappear again, since there's apparently a whole other world that I didn't know about." John shakes his head and chuckles dryly. He looks at his friend then, the nightlight making the tired eyes look glassy. Or maybe it's just the tears. "At your grave I asked for one last miracle from you – for you to live – and you've given me that. Thank you -"

"John shut up," Sherlock shushes softly, grasping his best friend by both hands, cupping his head, "I was born Albus Severus Potter, but I am Sherlock Holmes. There was never any ambiguity. I don't want you to go John. You must stay, because furious you may be with me, I can see your craving for answers, and I will oblige. So I beg you John, _stay._ Stay until everything is explained and sorted, then we can go home together. Now I _need _you. Please stay_." _

I need you.

John feels his stomach clench, and he has to ask himself if he heard right, if what Sherlock actually said was '_I need you' _not'_I need you to stay'_, because those two sentences mean completely different things. In his head, he can almost see that crooked little smile Sherlock gave when he said _I'd be lost without my blogger. _

_I'm not gay._

It's become such an automatic response.

_Sure you are. _

John groans internally. Of all the times to remember _that_ woman, it has to be now. Her open display of flirtiness with Sherlock (if the amount of eye-sex that went on in 221B's living room was anything to be judged by), her smugness when she insisted on John and Sherlock's more-than-friend relationship, her rather flippant reply of those exact three words when John objected with '_we're not a couple' – _as much as her insinuations were 'indelicate', nevertheless it does not take away from the fact that Irene Adler was completely and utterly right.

It just might take awhile for _John _to see it.

The '_I'm not gay' _argument sure doesn't sound all that legitimate anymore.

"Stay." The detective repeats.

John's fingers curl around Sherlock's wrist as he removes the detective's hand from his cheeks. Elevated heart rate. Dilated pupils. Sharp Breath. A desperateness in his eyes.

John believes him.

"Okay."

000

000

000

When she is sure that everyone has gone, Anthea moves from her spot against the wall.

Anthea.

She likes this name. James had suggested it back when he became Mycroft Holmes. Anthea is the byname of the Greek goddess Hera, Zeus's Queen, and Ani immediately preferred it over her given name, Antares. Antares is 15th brightest star in the sky, part of the Scorpio constellation. It was her grandfather Lucius's choice to name her thusly, because Antares had been his grandmother's middle name and also because by some stroke of luck or magic, Ani was born exactly on the same day as her older brother. It seemed fitting at the time, but Scorpius was brought into the world at dawn while Ani arrived on a starless mid-February eve. Even their hair speaks of their fate; Scorpius's radiant silver-blonde is a stark contrast against Ani's inky raven black, like her mother's. Of course Draco and Astoria love their daughter equally as they love their firstborn son, but Ani knows at the end of the day, she'll always come second to her brother. You can't change the deep rooted pureblood traditions in one generation – her father tries hard, her mother even harder, but it is all beyond their capabilities. So for the better part of her childhood, Ani was the shadow that Scorpius's light casted on the manor's wall.

But James Potter has eagle sharp eyes that missed nothing, and he saw her past the shadows and offered her another option, another name. A second chance. From time to time, she'll have to be Antares, or Ani, but for most of her days, she is Anthea.

She wonders who she needs to be tonight. Softly, she knocks against Mycroft's door, "Sir? Mr. Holmes, can I come in?"

There is no answer.

Quietly, Anthea pushes the door open but she remains at the entrance. The bed Mycroft sits on is still prepared with the Quidditch pillow cases and throws, memoirs from his youth. His head hangs low and his elbows rest on his knees.

"Sir? Mycroft."

"No." The man looks up. He is so tired, "just James. I just want to be James tonight."

Anthea sits down beside James on the bed. Carefully, she leans her head against his shoulders, her arm rubbing comforting circles against his back, "Understandable. Mr. Holmes must be very tired. England can survive one night without him."

"Who are you tonight?"

"Anthea." She answers without thinking. She's almost always Anthea these days, except maybe when she goes to visit her family. Even then, she's just Ani, and Ani is nice too. She is loved, cared for. Antares Malfoy is too big a name to carry sometimes, kind of like Mycroft Holmes or even James Sirius Potter. There's so much power to the names Holmes and Potter that the man sitting beside her can never escape it. Anthea feels bad for him.

James grunts, "Do you ever get tired of being Anthea?"

"Do you mean your PA?" She chuckles, "because yes, that job is very grating on the nerves. But, no, I am never tired of being Anthea." She reaches for his hand, because he is just James now, not James Potter, not Mycroft Holmes, not her boss.

James turns to look at her and she smiles quietly at him. She doesn't get to very often when they work, simply because the nature of their relationship doesn't allow for anything short of utter professionalism. How unfortunate especially since Anthea is a big smiler.

"I've almost forgotten what you look like when you smile." James returns it with a bittersweet one. "You always were sort of bubbly during Hogwarts. I kind of miss it." Anthea doesn't guess if he is referring to her bubbly personality or their school. Probably both.

"Come James, lie down. You need to sleep." Anthea pulls the suit jacket off James's hunched shoulders, and he responds by collapsing into the mattress. His eyes gaze into the ceiling, where a golden snitch flutters restlessly in its bugger-sized wired cage hanging off the ceiling. It is the first snitch he ever caught, and though he hasn't played in many years, he still keeps it. It reminds him of his youth, when his father was around more and life was magical yet simple. James doesn't talk about it often, but Anthea knows he's sentimental like that, much more so than Albus or even Lily. Perhaps it is because his ability to experience sentiment more vividly than his siblings that cause him to conclude it is not an advantage.

'The Ice Man' – Moriarty really couldn't have been more wrong.

The detective Sherlock wonders about the possibilities sentiments might bring, and in brief rare times even nurse the thought that maybe it is a defect not to feel, like during that one Christmas Eve when he was brought to the body of the supposedly dead Irene Adler.

Taking a long drag of that cheap cigarette outside of St. Bart's morgue, Sherlock was companied by Mycroft, but when he opened his mouth to speak, it was Albus who spoke to James. James knew, from his brother's ashen face and the slight tremble in his stance only James could detect, that the younger man standing in front of him was no longer the great genius Sherlock Holmes, but the same lost and nervous little boy he led by the hand up the steps of the Hogwarts Express.

He missed Albus.

_Do you ever think there's something wrong with us?_ The younger Potter had asked the older, genuine alarm and possibly even dismay blatant in his tone. James wondered if Albus was truly starting to see for the first time in his thirty years the oddity of their familial relationship, but he didn't say that.

_Sentiment is not an advantage, Sherlock._ He told his brother instead. Albus's persistent disregard or even ignorance of the lack of sentiment in the Potter siblings had always been his greatest protection. After all, most people are happy with the way they are until they truly believe there is something wrong with them, and James saw no reason to change that for his brother.

The situation for him, on the other hand, is clearly different from Albus's, although Albus does not necessarily know. Let him believe there is no disparity between James and the Ice Man. He need not know that his brother feels all the sentiment that he and Lily will never feel, and that James knows how much sentiment can hurt and harm. After all, how can anyone make the chilling statement _sentiment is not an advantage_ without ever experiencing sentiment's debilitating impact first?

James squeezes Anthea's hand subconsciously.

The young witch looks down at the man lying next to her, wondering if she'll ever get to tell him that he's wrong. If it weren't for sentiment, his brother would be dead. She twists onto her side propping her head against the heel of her palm. She sighs, "You have to stop thinking sometimes, you know. Let your mind rest."

James scoffs as if it's the most trivial thing he's heard.

Anthea frowns, "James-"

"It's not true."

"What's not true?" Anthea humours him. She already knows what James is digressing towards, but she pretends not to, just like the time when he asked her to upgrade Sherlock Holmes and John Watson's civilian status. It keeps him talking that way, and Anthea realizes that the more he talks, the more Mycroft becomes James. She likes James, and she wishes he is around more often.

"My brother says I'd sell his soul for the right price, but it's not true. He forgets sometimes that I was James Potter first before Mycroft Holmes, and that I have always protected him…until…"

James looks away then. Anthea has a feeling he is about to cry. "But this whole thing, it is because of me. Because of me, Moriarty got to him. Because of me, Moran got to him. Because of me, he had to jump and be dead. Mummy will never forgive me; and John probably already hates me. It was all because of me."

Anthea allows a moment of silence before she burrows herself against his side and curls an arm tightly around his midsection. "Don't flatter yourself, James. Not everything is because of you."

000

000

000

There is a do not disturb sign on the door to the attic where Sherlock's old room is. It's charmed to glow menacingly and the glow intensifies when they approaches. John figures that Sherlock would be one of those moody, sullen, rebellious teenagers who gave their parents a hard time. In fact, the man still does.

Sherlock snaps his fingers and the hallway lids up and the sign turns into a happy blue and silver, _Welcome Back, Albus._ It's the simplest bit of magic, but John still stares in wonder. "Wow."

His companion does not respond to his compliment, but John can feel the pleased smugness radiating from him.

"Why do you live in the attic? There are perfectly good rooms downstairs." John inquires. He can never stay mad at Sherlock for too long.

"Dull."

"Is that the same response you gave your parents when they asked you the same question?" John rolls his eyes.

"No. Mummy made me write an essay proposing the reasons, causes and benefits of moving to the attic and hand it in to Aunt Hermione for her to inspect. If Aunt Hermione validates the proposal, then I can move."

"Aunt Hermione?"

"My Uncle Ronald's wife, also my Dad's best friend from school. Minister of Magic. President of our world if you will. Although at the time, she held a position equivalent to the Attorney General. A hard-ass lawyer, Dad called her. "Sherlock waves his hand about as if that detail isn't important.

Huh. His mother made him write an essay to the Attorney General so he could move up to the attic. Of course. John wants to face-palm. This family does nothing by half. He really should've known.

They arrive at the attic at last, and Sherlock invites John in. It is then that John realizes something important. He follows Sherlock, by Mummy's orders, so Sherlock can find him a guest bedroom. Instead, under the pretense of that, Sherlock brought John to _his _bedroom. It's hard not to think of the implications.

And frankly, John is not surprised that he is not appalled.

"Soo, you're a sorcerer? And your family, they are sorcerers too?" John can't help but ask. He doesn't pry usually, it's not his business, but when his supposedly dead best friend comes back like a zombie and lets him know that there is apparently a whole magical side to his life that said roommate never remembered to tell him, John makes it his business to find out what he deserves to know.

Sherlock holds his head up high and stands even taller than he is before (if that's possible), and says rather proudly, "We are legally certified wizards and witches. Not sorcerers, that's too…medieval."

"Wizards and witches…" John reiterates, and sighs, "Okay."

Sherlock pauses briefly, as if trying to understand how understanding John can really be sometimes, "That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?" John responds automatically, remembering that night in the cab.

His friend smiles wryly, "It really shouldn't matter what they say, because they won't remember after we obliviate them."

John frowns in confusion, "What do you mean – Wow." The doctor freezes at the doorway. There really is nothing to prepare him to expect the absolute wonder that is revealed to him beyond the door.

The dominating thought that penetrates his mind was really how much books this room holds. The main wall, aside from the fireplace which centers it, is covered by books of all shapes and sizes, hard-covers, paperbacks, leather-bound, and papyrus. Cutting across the middle of the shelves, though, are two rows of small drawers, each neatly labeled; John dares not think what they contain when he sees the temple of a suspicious jarred specimens and a solemn black cauldron on what must be Sherlock's work desk.

To his right, John faces a window seat, built on solid oak wood with hand sewn cushions and throws. Piles of books and tomes, bundles of parchments and scrolls laid about in scatters and lumps. There was no wall, but a slanted glass skylight, arching above the seating, flanked on either side by the most elaborate and intricate stained glass John has ever seen, more gorgeous than any cathedral's. The doctor stares up and up, expecting to see the glass joining the roof, but there was no roof. The window simply merges into soft layers of clouds. Above them, John can see the stars littering the London night.

He knows it must be magic, for though snow flurries outside, it never lands into the room. There is no chill, and John is perfectly comfortable in his pajamas.

An entire wall was missing from the back of the attic, interspaced by Romanesque pillars. The floors are partially covered in soft mossy grass and there's literally a round pond of cerulean water in the left side of the staircase.

"This is REALLY….I'm jealous," John manages, but Sherlock only smirks amusedly and flops onto one of the sofas in front of the fireplace. With a snap of his finger, the fireplace and the candle sconces light up and they are no longer engulfed in darkness.

But the light directs John's attention from his surrounding to an object resting above the fireplace, and he recognizes it immediately.

"Is that…"

Shards of beige ceramic swirl around a broken afghan cup, John's keepsake from his deployment that Sherlock had smashed for an experiment. Not on purpose of course; even someone as inattentive to social norms as Sherlock knows when he mustn't cross the line. Still, John had refused to speak to him for two days afterwards. The cup was too shattered to be salvageable by glue, but the ex army doctor eventually accepted the box of the shards Sherlock had collected and put into a box. If memory serves him, he had left it underneath his bed with the rest of his army stuff…how…

John waits for an explanation, but his friend cannot meet his eyes. "I know how much it means to you." The detective explains quietly and touches a suspended piece of ceramic; his swollen left eye did not hide the apology it conveyed. He opens his mouth and words tumble out in a rush. "The cup was too fragmented. Putting it together by muggle – _conventional _– means was simply impossible; I tried. A simple _repairo_ would do the trick nicely, but I hadn't got the chance before you came home and saw the … mess…I made. After that, I couldn't fix the cup by magic and not cause suspicion."

John gapes him, "Why didn't you fix it by magic first?" He isn't accusing, just curious

Sherlock actually has the decency to look guilty this time, "It was too simple, like a short cut, an easy way out. It was a challenge, a _game_, which I didn't want to lose. I know now that it was…unwise… of me."

John didn't comment, but chooses the continue questions, "Why do you have it then?"

Sherlock shifts uncertainly. His eyes are wide and innocent-like, and from the way he swallows thickly, John knows there's an answer on his tongue that he does not wish to reveal. Swiftly he spins and pokes a larger shard and all the other shards zoom towards the cup and merge together to form a perfect cup again.

"Here." He thrusts the cup into John's hands, his arms flailing about in agitation as he rambled again, "I figured I had to fix it sometimes, and when I did I would tell you that I'm a wizard. Here, now you can use it again."

John brushes the rim of the up with his thumb and nods slowly. The whole process is incredibly awkward. He sits down on the armchair across from Sherlock, clutching his cup and wondering what had gotten them into this sticky mess. Everything had been fine just seconds ago; they were finally talking like they used to. There are so many questions swirling in John's head that he physically cannot think straight.

He takes a deep breath and decides it's time for Sherlock to just be straight with him, but the detective has other plans. John watches as Sherlock pulls large clouds from the ceiling down and fluffy them roughly with his hands.

"It's late John, you should sleep. Here I've made your bed. "

_Does he really want me to sleep on a cloud? _

John shakes his head, "Sherlock we need to talk –"

But detective/wizard presses his palm unexpectedly against John's forehead and there is a whisper of _dormitus _before John knows no more.

In his half conscious states, he feels softness against his hand and a sorrowful hush.

"I'm sorry, John. I simply want to fix what I have broken."

* * *

AN: thanks for reading! Reviews will make me happier and make chapters funnier.


	4. Chapter 4

**As promised, I wrote during the Christmas break and now here's chapter 4! **

* * *

**Chapter 4: Pensieve **

If there is anything worse than seeing one's best friend jump to his death from the rooftop, is to see him do it again.

Heavy rainclouds looming above him, London's urban skyline filling his vision, John Watson finds himself standing on the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. A few feet from him lay the body of the man who was responsible for his nightmares for the past three years. The bullet through his temple put a much wished for end to the evil and psychosis that governed the man's twisted mind. Crouching next to the body of Jim Moriarty, John confronts the cold unblinking stare of the criminal mastermind and finds no life. The doctor, usually so righteous and empathetic a man, can provide no morose in his heart to see Moriarty dead.

_Jim Moriarty is dead. _

_Jesus! _

John whips around, the haze over his conscience vanishing instantly as a single thought penetrates his memory like a ray of burning light dissipating mist.

There, perched dangerously on the edge of the roof, with wild hair and black coat flying in the wind is Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock!" John yells, dashing to his friend. He reaches a hand out to him to pull him back from the edge, but his fingers slips through Sherlock's body as if through inky water.

Skidding to an abrupt stop, John stares down at his own palm, disbelief and terror precipitating in his mind.

_I don't understand…_

"Sherlock!" John calls again, but the detective pays him no mind. His eyes are glued to the street below him, and John follows his line of vision until he sees himself standing across the road, looking up. His breath hitches in his throat, and the rhythm of his pounding heart sounds like the beat of a terrible countdown.

"_No, stay right there! Will you do this for me John?" _

_What haven't I been willing to do for you? You idiot... _John smiles bitterly. A part of him crumples on the inside to see the tears that stain Sherlock's beautiful chiseled face. It is then that John realizes that he never wants anything but smiles on that face again.

"_This phone call, it's my note…" _Sherlock voice wavers and John chokes back the lump in his throat. This conversation, he remembers it like he remembers the pain of being shot, like a permanent scar seared into his brain. He used to dream about this, and it always ended with him wake up screaming from his nightmare. On one occasion, he even vomited onto the carpet – that had been hell to clean, so thank God it never happened again. Generally, sleep escaped him after each episode, and he would lay there enshrouded by silence until night bled into day and the crippling pain in his chest dulled down to a bearable ache. When at last the morning light soaked up all the dreadful darkness, John would drag himself out of bed. His acute awareness of loneliness so sharpened by the long hours of night would be blurred enough by the sound of traffic and early risers for him to get on with another day.

God… how he had survived all those months.

"Sherlock…" John searches into Sherlock's eyes, and he finds fear, sorrow and uncertainty – emotions so raw and intense that he's never detected on the detective before. Stumbling forward, John draws closer to his best friend, right up on the edge beside him that if it were possible; he would be pressed against Sherlock's side. Though knowing he can't touch Sherlock, John still bows his head and turns so that his cheeks can almost rest against Sherlock's shoulder. The weakness in his knees barely holds him up at all. Exhaling a shuddering breath, he closes his eyes as he feels the traitorous tickle in his nose that precedes tears. _No, don't cry Watson_, he chides himself, _Sherlock wouldn't like that._

"_It's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note." _

John allows himself one dry, staccato sob, and he whispers in a low, pleading voice, "No Sherlock, don't you dare. Don't do this. Not again. Sherlock, I'm right here! Look at me, I'm right here…"

"Please." He begs, whether to the friend who can't hear him or to the God who never does is uncertain. Yet he begs all the same, and he prays that somebody – anybody – can answer.

"_Goodbye, John." _

With arms wide open, as if accepting fate, as if inviting death, Sherlock leaps.

"NO!" Screaming, John shoots out his hand to catch Sherlock's coat tail, but finds no grip. He leans dangerously over the edge watching unblinkingly as the descending figure travelled the distance. No matter how much he wants to look away, he couldn't. Over the roaring of the blood in his ear, John can almost hear the thud as his best friend's body hit the pavement. Magic or no magic, he can't seem to see how Sherlock could've possibly survived the fall.

For a moment, all is still and his mind is blank.

Slowly, he lifts one leg.

000

000

000

"Doctor Watson."

Slowly, the man turns to her. Poor John. She cannot deny her own satisfaction as she witnesses John's reaction to her brother's death – such agony and utter sense of loss can only stem from pure undiluted devotion and, dare she say it, love. A smile tugs on her lips; Albus is lucky man. Nevertheless, a bang of pity pulses through her when she notices the state of John's battered soul, but such sympathetic sentiment quickly fades.

Lily doesn't have to be a Holmes to deduce what he is about to do.

"Stop John." She tugs on his elbow, pulling him from the roof edge. John collapses against her, his legs finally giving in. He is heavy, but Lily cradles him against her nevertheless, letting him hyperventilate dryly against the silk sleeve of her green kimono night-robe. With a snap of her finger, the scenery dissolves into whisks of blue-grey smoke as if someone had spilled water onto a Chinese ink painting.

John turns to the woman beside him, realizing that everything he saw was an act of magic. He suddenly becomes angry, thinking this is Lily messing with his head. In a way, he's not wrong. "What have you done to me?! What did I just see?"

"A memory. That was my brother's memory of the Fall." Lily answers quietly, still keeping her hold on the man.

John pushes her away, gazing around him at the empty zone he stands in. All traces of what is there before are erased completely. So blank a canvas is his surrounding that he cannot differentiate between the sky and the earth or East from West. "Where are we?"

"We are inside the memory chamber of my…what's the word Albus uses, ah - mind palace. This is where I store all the memories I collect – I prefer the Pensieve, but I find this is much simpler when I deal with Muggles. " Lily gestures around her.

"I am inside _your head." _John gapes, having a hard time wrapping his mind around what he's been told.

"Only mentally. Physically you are sleeping in my brother's room." Lily says it in such a way as if that's suppose to somehow make John feel safer. It doesn't. Quite the contrary.

_Mind Palace. Telepathy. Collecting memories._ If for a second John had forgotten what Lily is, he is surely reminded by now. Mycroft has physically kidnapped him one too many times, and now Lily has hijacked his brain. No place is private or safe when he deals with the Holmes – neither his body nor his mind. Running a hand across his tired face, he scowls bitterly, "Why did you have to show me _that _memory? As if I don't _already dream_ about it?"

"I'm sorry Dr. Watson, I didn't mean upset you." John doesn't believe her. However she arranges her expression into the very definition of remorse, John can still detect traces of satisfaction from her eyes; he would not be wrong if he presumed that she enjoyed showing him that memory.

"Just so you know, Sherlock Holmes really did die that day. I would know, because I was there.I showed you the memory because I was curious to see your reaction to his death. It was…an experiment."

"An experiment." John deadpans. Brilliant, manipulative, with a dash of audacious viciousness and so removed from trivial sentiments, Lily is her brothers' sister no doubt. John can't help but shudder, "If you were there you would already know how I reacted."

"Please, I was preoccupied with other things." Lily waves dismissively; annoyed that he would ask something so obvious. "My brother just fell off a bloody roof and died, and you expect me to pay attention to how his boyfriend is grieving his death? No, no, I was much too busy making sure the reaper didn't do something idiotic…but I'm getting ahead of myself."

What. The. Fuck. John shakes his head and pinches his nose bridge. "I'm not his – what do you mean you ensured - reapers…what?" That last little bit comes out as a weak little squeak.

"What indeed. That is why I'm here. To explain the mess my brothers made." Lily smiles, and she is so angelic when she does, but John doesn't like it. Behind the sweet exterior, the smile reflects about twenty three shades of wickedness, and it scares the shit out of him.

"How do you plan to do that?"

"Through the memories I collected of course, from different people whom each played their own role in the Fall and what came after it, myself, Albus and James included. I believe you will find this compilation very…enlightening." Lily raises her left hand, poised in the position. "Whenever you're ready doctor."

John takes a deep breath. Lily's smile widens and she snaps.

000

000

000

_Mycroft. _

_John appears next to Mycroft in what looks to be a cellar of some sort, with concrete walls and dim florescent lights. Together they both stare into a one way mirror, at the prisoner kept inside. Jim Moriarty. _

_A chill shoots up John's spin when he notices Sherlock's name scratched into every flat surface of the room. _

"_Whatever it is you want, Mycroft, make it quick, won't you? John and I still have a 'Hound' to catch. Speaking of which, why are you at Baskerville. You've already send Lestrade to check up on me. Don't you have a nation to run and diet to manage?" Sherlock languid voice floats towards them and he appears onto the scene, forming from tendrils of smoke. This is not his memory then, it must Mycroft's. _

Baskerville... I don't remember Mycroft being there…how could Sherlock have met…Oh.

A fleeting memory of them standing in the elevator at Baskerville flashes across John's mind. Somebody…he can't recall it being Sherlock or himself…had inquired what was in the **B **level, and then later, before Sherlock and him briefly went their separate ways, the detective had received a phone call, which Sherlock later explained had been something relating to the cause at hand, but…

It must've been Mycroft calling then, and this, John surveys around him, this must be the basement of Baskerville. _God, even then, the plan for the Fall had been put down. _

"_There is no 'hound'." _

"_Of course I know that - " Sherlock pauses. John can almost hear the gears going on turbo drive in Sherlock's brain as he deduces his brother. Then he looks through the window. "What have you done?" _

"_Nothing I didn't have to." There is quilt in Mycroft's voice. _

_The brothers stand shoulder to shoulder facing the criminal mastermind. "How much did you tell him?" Sherlock finally says. John can tell, no matter how his friend supports an air of apathy, that he is upset. The subtle tautness around his lips and the miniscule wrinkle at the corner of his eyes are all evidences betraying him. _

_Mycroft doesn't even bother hiding his own frown, "Enough. It was a matter of international importance. The security of our world and the Muggle's is dependent on it." _

"_Moriarty is not like us." Sherlock counters, "You could've tried the Veritaserum or Legilimency." His tone is accusing. "You –"_

"_I have exhausted all others means," Mycroft cuts him off sharply, "You think I haven't tried everything? I asked for the best potions master to brew the serum – I even called Rose. It failed. It shouldn't - it never fails, but it did, and the reasons escape me. As for Legilimency, I performed it myself. I cannot penetrate his thoughts, something is protecting him."_

John has never heard Mycroft speak like this before, _argue_ with Sherlock like this before. Sure, they bicker and insult each other like they are some blood rivals, but never like this. The way they speak now - John for the first time can feel that they are truly brothers.

"_I'm sorry." Mycroft's sincerity catches John off guard. _

"_No you're not." Sherlock's rebuttal is icy and his words bite, "Not yet." _

_There is a long silence afterwards, and it is Mycroft who breaks it first. _

"_The good thing is, there's not a single drop of magical blood in old Jim here. However the probable conclusion left is that he is affiliated with someone who does. A very dark, very powerful one." _

"_Lovely." The sarcasm is ever present, but the residual anger is gone. Sherlock looks to his brother, "I suppose you have no idea who." _

"_None." Mycroft admits with a sigh, "None of our usual suspects match the case. He or she is very well hidden in our society…or, they are not part of our immediate circles at all. Perhaps they are like us, assuming a Muggle identity, or from magical societies abroad." From his pocket, Mycroft draws out a pack of cigarettes and plucks one into his mouth. _

"_Smoking in a confined government facility? Mycroft, what would your bosses say?" Sherlock clucks his tongue. _

_Mycroft ignores the bait and smirks a little. He's pretty sure Sherlock's intense glare can light a cigarette all by itself. The cold turkey must be killing him. "I was going to offer you one, but since you're so law-bidding –" _

"_Don't be ridiculous," The pack is snatched from his grip faster than he could even finish the sentence. _

_Taking a long, painstaking drag, Sherlock closes his eyes and lets out a gratifying puff of smoke, "I hope you had enough discretion to keep our identities from him. Nothing good ever comes from dragging the entire clan into things. " _

"_Of course. He's shown no indication that he knows of our true identity; as far as he is concerned, we are muggles. I was careful not to expose our parentage or our magical blood. However, there is no limit to what he can do with what I did reveal."_

_Sherlock grinds the barely smoked stub on the concrete wall, "I promised John cold turkey. I shouldn't have forgotten." Flipping his coat collar up, he turns on his heels. _

_Mycroft stares at the tip of his own cigarette wearily, "Consider yourself warned…Albus. You must be prepared."_

_The younger man spares the older one last glance over the shoulder, "I always am. This is not the first time you've disrupted my life, becoming Mycroft Holmes the first of many incidences. Though I wish it weren't so, I'm sure I'll be seeing you around…James." _

The images dissolves, and John stands alone in the canvas with Lily again.

"The Veritaserum and the Legilimency, what are they?"

"You really waste no time, do you?" Lily's eyes glitter with amusement

"No, I suppose I don't."

"The Veritaserum is a potion that compels the taker to tell the absolute truth. Think of Legilimency as a…mindreading method. It's very difficult, only a selected few knows it, and it is resistible too."

John furrows his brows in confusion, "They didn't work on Moriarty."

"The Legilimency problem was because of the wizard Moriarty was affiliated with." Lily explains, "He casted a very rare and exceptional spell on him. We are currently trying to find a counter spell to prevent future troubles – it's a slow progress, but a good one."

"And the potion?"

"Unfortunately for all of us though Moriarty was no wizard, he was…very special." Lily spat, as if it physically pains her to say it. Her angelic face contorts into a nasty and spiteful sneer. "In the magical autopsy conducted by our healers, they discovered a – I believe you would call it 'antibody' – in Moriarty's system that made him impervious to the serum. If I had my way, if my _idiot_ brothers had called upon me sooner, I'd have Jim Moriarty's body ripped to shreds and his soul skewered on the coldest rack in The Pit _before_ he could force Albus to his death."

Venomous words pass from her lips like poison from a cobra's. Lily is not so keen to suppress her emotions as her brothers, at least, not her anger. John can practically feel the scorching heat in her eyes, not a wild burning flame, but deeper and heavier, like molten lava brewing and churning with a force unpredictable by man. John, frankly, has no idea what she meant by skewering Moriarty's soul on a rack in the Pit, but he has a feeling Lily wasn't speaking metaphorically. Do not provoke her, an inner voice warns him, because the devastation wrought would be … apocalyptic.

_Please God, let me live. _John doesn't know why he would have _that _thought pass through his mind. This was his best friend's sister, who has displayed no hostility towards him thus far, yet he still feels like he's facing Death himself. Subconsciously, John takes a step backwards.

"You've nothing to fear from me, John. The winged minions have got a firm claim to your soul, so it's perfectly safe." Lily appeases and shakes herself loose from the rigid, angry stance she held herself. The crazy subject of souls is quickly changed before John can come to terms with it, "Are you ready for your next memory? We have so many to go through, and I won't stop to speak with you after each one."

"Yes, okay. Get on with it then."

Lily smiles, kinder this time, "Good. These next few are mine."

000

000

000

You're not in Kansas anymore, John. Nope… because you're in South Dakota.

_Convenient that a tourist travel brochure should be littered at the edge of the two lane highway John finds himself standing beside. It is the dead of night, and the asphalt road cuts through forested region like a black chasm. Behind himself, the flickering light of the country gas-station and its neighbouring motel keep the company of the sparse streetlamps evenly distributed along the highway. _

Hell, you are in the middle of nowhere.

"_Honestly Lily, must I always find you residing in some seedy hotel in the middle of nowhere." Somebody else seems to agree with John's distaste of the location, and John doesn't have to look to know it is Mycroft Holmes. Nobody quite does the scolding, snide, condescending combination tone quite like that man. It's a signature really. _

"_Why have you come to see me, James?" Lily is standing beside a grey chevy, bare feet, dressed in a pair of pajama shorts and a man's plaid shirt. Her arms are crossed against her chest, hugging herself from the cold, but mostly because she's pissed at her brother for showing up at such lunatic hours. _

_Mycroft, surprisingly, takes off his beige overcoat and hands it to his sister, "Put it on Lily, or you'll catch –"_

"_Death?" Lily scoffs, "I don't think so. We have lunch regularly." Tough talking aside, she takes the coat all the same. _

_Mycroft rolls his eyes, "I was going to say a cold." _

"_No you weren't. Don't lie."Lily huddles into the soft fabric of the coat, "Now, brother dearest, how can little old me help you?" _

_Mycroft is no longer smiling. He hands her a stack of newspaper. She accepts it without a snide remark, and reads the front page. "Jim Moriarty. I've heard of this man. A genius. Too bad he reeks of everything wrong with humanity." A dark frown pressing down her lips, "Albus must be in some nasty kind of trouble for you to be finding me in America. Can the British government no longer handle Jim?" _

_Lily looks up at Mycroft and just stares at him squarely for a while. Finally she blinks. "I ought to slap you." _

John rolls his eyes. Great. Another deduction master. The apples don't fall too far from each other.

"_How much did you tell him about Albus?" _

"_Enough. This is my fault." Mycroft clutches his fist. Speaking of apples, he pulls one from his pocket. It's sloppily carved and the exposed flesh is oxidizing already. The apple slowly splits open into 5 pips, and two more glowing words shone from within. "He told Al – I owe you a fall…Mr. Potter." _

John realizes this is as close to a breakdown as he's going to see from Mycroft. The man was on the verge of tears.

_Lily takes one step towards her brother, eyes wides, and grasps Mycroft's face in both her hands forcing him to look at her, "But there's more, isn't there?" _

_The older man replies weakly, "Moriarty is affiliated with a dark wizard." _

"_Ah. There's the rub." Lily's words are hushed, so when her fist comes down on Mycroft's chest, it is without a warning and does not look like she held back on him. John flinches when Lily howls, "All your wits, your deductions, your political power – you two must thought yourselves so clever, so above everybody, but you are all FOOLS! Magic was your last defense, your hidden wild card, but now your opponents know ALL the tricks up your sleeves, and you don't even know HIS NAME! James Sirius Potter, I swear if you weren't my blood I'd –" _

_Lily shoves Mycroft away. A sudden gust of wind sweeps into the quiet night from nowhere, whipping about the trees and the buildings, gathering up Lily's fire red hair. Her pupil are slits again and she hisses at Mycroft in a strange language, the same one John heard in the study room._

The wind bellows and, though it doesn't affect John, its shrill whine is still louder than any wind he's ever heard.

_Suddenly, Lily takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. The wind dies down. "You are all in the light, and he is in the dark. He is watching you, but you cannot see him. Albus is going to die." Her voice drew quiet, "Go back to England, James. This is out of your hands now."_

"_So you will help him." _

Mycroft looks relieved. He is more human in that moment than he ever seemed to John.

"_One of us has to." Lily's cold, hardened gaze fell on him, "Why did you do it, James? He's our brother. Did you forget your promise to Dad?" _

"_No! I would never forget." Mycroft's umbrella tapped against the ground sharply, "I thought of killing Moriarty, just get him away Al, but…there are things, information, in his head that I need to know. You've never met him, Lily, you can't imagine the sheer mass of human lives that this one man, who possess no element of the supernatural, is capable of destroying. I have..my civil duties to uphold." _

"_Queen and country. Always so patriotic." Lily scoffs, "So what? You'd use your little brother as sacrifice? That doesn't make you a hero, _Mycroft Holmes. _You're not Dad."_

"_I never meant for real harm to befall, Albus." Mycroft bows his head. He sighs, eyes shutting tiredly, admitting defeat, "But John Watson was right, I did this to Sherlock. I sold out my little brother. I betrayed him."_

To John's utter surprise, Lily steps forward and wraps her arms around her brother. Mycroft's arms comes up and hugs his sister's tiny body tightly. Burying his face in Lily's shoulder, Mycroft shakes silently. John can't see if he's crying or just heaving out of relief, but the grudge and the hate he harbored for this man for pushing Sherlock towards Moriarty slowly melts in the growing warmth in his chest.

The last thing he hears as the memory fades is Lily's soft voice, "Idiots. Both of you. Shush now, Jamie. I promise, it'll be alright. Leave it to me."

000

000

000

John arrives this time back across the Atlantic, standing in what looks like the hallway outside the morgue at . Lily from the memory stands next to him, facing a double door.

_Down the hall, Molly walks towards them, just returning from sorting out the last bit of the newest post mortem report. She left Sherlock in the lab by himself. He looked like he need to be alone, but she doesn't want to go home without checking up on him one last time. What Sherlock asked her, _needed her_ to do earlier had shaken her to the core. If she was found out, she stood to lose…well a lot, but Sherlock was – despite everything – her friend, and she couldn't tell him no. _

John watches her walking figure and smiles a little. Sweet Molly. She loved Sherlock. His death had been just as hard on her.

_Molly pauses when she sees the slim figure of a young woman ahead. The stranger is dressed impeccably in an expensive-looking knee-length black trench coat – designer no doubt, something Molly has neither the spare money to afford nor the confidence to wear (she didn't think herself tall enough or her calves slender enough like the woman's to fit into those types of clothes). Matching the woman's blood-red stilettos and kidskin gloves of the same shade is her vibrant fiery hair, spilling down her back like burning liquid lava. _

_Molly approaches the stranger, wondering if she is the family of the new car accident victim who died earlier that day. "Hello, can I help you?" _

"_Yes," The woman faces her, and Molly notices she is about the same age as herself, possibly even younger. She's a lovely little thing indeed, with her aristocratic nose, fair skin and sharp hazel eyes. "I am here to see…Sherlock Holmes. He is expecting me."_

_Molly recoils a little at that, the faintest twinge of jealousy pooling in her stomach. "Sherlock? Yes, he is just in the lab down the hall, left of the morgue. I'm going there now, if you don't mind following me." She begins leading the guest towards the morgue. "Are you- are you a friend of his?" _

_The woman smiles thinly. A glint flashes in her eyes that John recognizes as mischief. "Oh I'd say we are closer than that." _

_Molly flushes, "O-oh." _

John sighs. Lily obviously knows (or deduced, or read mind, or whatever) Molly's affections for Sherlock. She could've very well have said that she's family, but she chooses a much more suggestive reply to tease the poor girl.

"_He says the two of us don't see each other nearly as often as we should, and I think he's right. I do miss him terribly." Lily continues. Molly appears as if someone is stabbing her repeatedly. John feels bad for Molly, because clearly Lily is just like her brothers and can be devilish she wanted. _

"_Yes- yes Sherlock should be right in the lab. He works like mad, you know – I mean of course you'd know –" Molly rambles, "He's here all the time, calling me for corpses and cases, really drives me up the wall sometimes. I'm the coroner here you see – I'm Molly, Molly Hooper." Molly tucks a lose strand of hear behind her ear, not sure what she's trying to achieve by introducing herself _

_Lily's smile widens a bit, "I know." _

_When they arrive at the lab, Sherlock looks up, and John does not miss the almost unnoticeable sigh of relief that exhales from him. The detective rises from his seat and greets his sister, "Lily." He bends down slightly to allow her kiss both his cheeks. _

_Returning her brother's welcoming hug, Lily dismisses Molly right away, "Thank you, Dr. Hooper. Please can you excuse us?" _

_Molly flushes harder and leaves the room rapidly, looking quite sick. _

"_That was mean." Sherlock says once Molly is out of earshot, "Letting her think we are a couple." _

"_Mean?" Lily chuckles, "Albus, that doctor really most be rubbing off on you…figuratively of course. Besides, I was doing that poor girl a favour."_

_Lily takes off her coat and makes herself comfortable on a bench. John is glad Molly isn't here to see Lily, all splendid and confident in her professional ivory dress that hugs her glorious figure. "James came to inform me that that you got yourself into a bit of trouble that warrants my particular brand of…expertise. He's explained the situation briefly, now tell me, what exactly do you need from me." _

"_I may need to… die." Sherlock tugs his jacket straight, "Can you help me do that?" _

_Lily tilts her head, "I don't think anyone need help to die, Albus." _

"_Fake death: that can bypass a very clever and possibly very powerful wizard's detection." _

_Lily's smile disappears, "In my line of work, Albus, there is no such thing as a fake death. No smoke and mirrors for us. It is not a game: if you are dead, you are dead." _

_Sherlock frowns and his face becomes stony, "Are you saying there's nothing you can do?" _

"_I don't do fake deaths, Albus. Every death that passes my hands is real." Lily's expression is equally unyielding, "If you are prepared to go through that – a real death – I can, however, bring you back." _

John gapes. What the HELL is Lily exactly? Bringing back the dead? This is bullshit on a whole new level. Just what the bloody fuck?

_Sherlock's hand twitches, "A real death." _

"_Yes, very real, very raw. It will most definitely hurt; I won't lie to you." Lily gazes her brother unblinkingly, "Should you choose to do it, I must seek permission and then ask favours from a few friends. One of them is not going to be happy –she's play very strictly by the book."_

_Sherlock hesitates, "Will Dad –" _

"_No. He won't know. In fact, I doubt he even knows about me." _

_Sherlock pressed his lips together and relents, "Fine. If it has to be that way. I will do it." He turns from his sister and goes back to his microscope. _

"_When?" _

"_Soon. In a few hours, at best. I assume I don't need to inform you of an exact time and date." _

"_Of course not," Lily rises from her seat, "Our 'network' is very well informed. When it happens, I will be there. However."_

John clutches his fist in frustration, 'network'? What did she mean by that?

_Sherlock looks at her, annoyed, "What? I thought I agreed to do things your way already." _

"_No, you agreed to do things by the rules that govern all of us." Lily corrects, "I on the other hand, have my own conditions." _

_Sherlock's eyes narrow, "What do you want? Oh, of course. Still up to your old tricks."_

_Lily pouts, "Don't look so uncomfortable, Albus. Think of it as…payment for my hard work."_

"_Or material for blackmail in the future." Sherlock counters begrudgingly. _

"_Oh please, it's hardly blackmail material." Lily rolls her eyes. _

_Sherlock casts his gaze down, mumbling, "You're going to show my memories to John, aren't you? When it's over." _

"_Clever boy." _

"_Don't call me boy, I'm older than you are!" Sherlock snaps icily. _

_Lily is nonplussed, "Only in years. So do we have deal?"_

"_Fine, whatever you want. Now just leave me alone." Sherlock turns away moodily, intensely gazing into his microscope as if laser can shoot from his pupils and kill the bacteria in the petri dish. _

_The youngest Potter comes beside Sherlock's work station and places her hand on his shoulder, and for the first time, gives her opinion on her brother's decisions. Her tone when she spoke lost its edge, and her voice was gentle. "If I didn't come to help you, what would you have done?" _

"_I made plans with Molly. She would help me fake my death. She doesn't know, but I would be covering my tracks further with magic." _

"_Did you think that was going to be enough? This wizard, whoever he is, did you think this would fool him?" Lily frowns. She already knows the answer to that question, and she knows that Sherlock does too. Yet, she refuses to believe her brother, so rational and pragmatic, unburdened by social conventions and the extraneous sentiments, could come to such a decision. This is not the Albus she knew. _

"_No." Sherlock's finger tightens around the course adjustment knobs of this microscope. _

"_Then – Merlin…" Lily's takes a step back, shocked despite her own intuitions. Hearing this from Sherlock's lips makes the gravity of the situation all that much more real, "You really were prepared to die."_

_Sherlock continues with his experiment as if it's no big deal."Mycroft would eventually destroy Moriarty's network and capture the wizard." He jolts down a couple of notes onto a piece of paper, a meaningless action truth be told. Everything important he can store in his mind palace, but doing so gives him an excuse not to face his sister and her stricken face. _

_Sherlock doesn't operate like most men. He doesn't exercise affection, respect nor curtsey in the usual fashion towards anybody, not even his own family. His relationship with Mycroft speaks for itself. On the other hand, with Lily, things are quite different, and he's never been able to understand why it was. Perhaps it's because Lily is younger and a girl, perhaps because she is equally wild and wicked or even more so than him (much to Mycroft's dismay), or perhaps despite always calling him out on his shit, she never judged him. Before he met John Watson, there was only two people in the world he was eager to please, one of whom he hasn't seen in almost ten years, and the other is Lily. _

John watches the interaction between the two siblings and thinks back on what he saw before in South Dekota. The Lily in front of her brother is so much kinder, warmer, more human. In front of everyone else, including John and Molly, she is a different Lily, one full of power and haunting smiles.

"_I was never afraid of death." Sherlock says finally. _

"_But that's not why you're doing this. Why? Why are you doing this?"_

_Sherlock mumbles a reply, "Lives are at stake."_

_The redhead frowns, "This is not like you; you've changed. You never used to care so much."_

"_You care too, sister." _

"_Familial relations. What choice do I really have? You are my brother. But these people, they're not family. If Moriarty wants them dead, you know caring won't save them." _

_Sherlock looks up, eyes bright and smiling, "And you're right, it won't, so I have to do this instead, because this will." _

"_All of this for one man," Lily sighs. She glances disdainfully down at his petri-dish of bacteria, "These experiments used to be the most important things to you. I'm actually glad you've moved on from them." _

_Sherlock glares sharply. "I have no idea what you're talking about." _

"_Sooner or later, you'll see." The youngest Potter runs her finger through her brother's black curls and presses a tender kiss to his forehead, "Goodbye Al, see you on the other side." _

_With that, Lily disappears. _

**TBC…**

* * *

**Author's Notes: It is finally done! Chapter Four almost killed me in the writing process; I just want to get everything right! All the little interactions and emotions between siblings, between friends…it was more difficult than I expected. I was planning to make one chapter on all the memories, but looks like that's going to be too long. So next chapter will continue where this one left off and hopefully all questions will be explained by then. Already, I've alluded to some of the things that will happen later. I realized that this fanfic will probably have more Supernatural elements than I intended in the beginning. In my mind, this has become a full SuperPotterlock story, but unless you guys really want to me, I'm trying not to focus too much on the Supernatural part and just stay true to the Potterlock side of the story, in case people get confused. There's so many interesting side stories that I want to tell that I probably won't get a chance to in this fic at all, so I might write a few one shots or ficlets later. ;) In the meantime, if I'm unclear in any of the memory sequences, let me know. As always, thanks for reading! Reviews are welcomed! **


	5. Chapter 5

_**Continuation from previous chapter. Italics are memories. Regular font is present day. **_

**Chapter 5: Pensieve II **

_Molly sobbed._

_Ever since the first cadavers was introduced to her in the anatomy course in second year university, Molly has exhibited nothing but pure fascination and excitement towards them. When the hospital crew from the ER wheeled the recently disgraced genius into her morgue, she didn't think much of it. In fact, she was relieved. They planned this together; he fooled the world._

_Except, something was obviously wrong. Molly had seen too many dead corpses to not recognize one when she saw it, and the man lying in front of her was definitely dead. Her first instinct was that this was some sort of joke being played by Sherlock, but as she raised a gloved hand and gently felt his crushed skull, the reality began to suck the breath from her lungs. Within seconds, she was almost hysterically in tears. The plan had failed. Sherlock was dead._

_The morgue staff did their usual routine, stripping the body of its clothes, and putting them methodically in labeled bags, in case the police came to ask for them. They were extra careful with victims of unnatural causes of death – this one jumped off the bloody building, so he automatically gets sorted into that category - but today, the staff held an extra degree of gentleness and care when handling the body. They had known this man. In fact, just hours ago, a couple of them had bumped into him in the labs. None of them had liked him all that much when he was alive, but now they can't help but feel sorry for the dead detective. He would've most definitely hated their pity and would've told them as much, but that's the thing about death – it is relentless in its destruction, and it cuts short even the seemingly unstoppable snark of Sherlock Holmes's acrid tongue. In death's presence, everything is fallible, leaving only the numbness, the empty space no longer occupied by a warm body. Perhaps it is this numbness that subdues the contempt the living once harboured for the recently diseased, because it seems meaningless to hate something that doesn't exist anymore._

_The staff worked efficiently and silently, and then they placed the cleaned body of the detective onto the cold stainless steel table. Only then, did they look at the pathologist leaning weakly against the morgue cabinets, making no intention to move or hide her despair. Poor thing, she had loved the man, and probably still does, however unrequited her affection is. The staff shook their heads, and bid her goodbye. Their job was done. Now it was her turn. They prayed that performing the autopsy wouldn't traumatize her too much. She was such a nice lady._

_Molly fisted her labs coat tightly, head bowed as she struggled to catch her racketed breath. Strands of hair moistened by her tears stuck to the side of her cheeks, and her lungs burned from the lack of air, but no more than the scorch of guilt pressing down on her conscience. She stumbled to the table, her knees wobbly the entire way. Gazing at Sherlock's serene face, even paler than usual, Molly fought the new round of waterworks threatening to burst. Without thinking, she grasped the detective's ice cold hand under the white sheet, then up to his wrist desperately searching for a pulse, anything to convince her that he still might be alive. Maybe the hospital staff made a mistake…_

_Sadly, the only thing she proved to herself was the onset of rigor mortis in Sherlock's rapidly stiffening muscles._

Dear god,_ thought the pathologist,_ how could it have gone so wrong? Sherlock's plans are flawless. They never go wrong._ He_ never does wrong. Then…it must've been me….did I prescribe too much of the anesthetic? Or miscalculate the impact of the blow? Oh God…oh God! I killed him. I killed Sherlock Holmes.

_Poor, poor Molly. Nobody told her there had been a change in plans, perhaps that was for the best. If even Molly, the one who was supposed to help Sherlock fake his death, thought him dead, then it'd be even more convincing._

_This of course, was exactly what Lily wanted._

_"Doctor Hooper." Molly looked up from the table and sniffled, quickly wiping the tears from her face. The redhead she had met a few hours earlier had come into the morgue, and stopped in front of the body._

_Molly gathered her breath, trying to remember her name. What was it again? Lola? Lena? Lelia? Lily? Lily. On a better day she would've contemplated how amicable the name was for this woman who was anything but. Molly shook her head in disbelief. She felt like she was dying inside. How could Lily just stand there as if she's facing a brick wall instead of the body of a dead man?! Did Sherlock mean nothing to her?! They had seemed so close!_

_Lily picked up Sherlock's arm closest to her, and inspected it. Molly cringed when she heard the crunch of Sherlock's stiff muscles resisting movement, but Lily didn't bat an eyelash. "Interesting. No broken joints. He hadn't tried to break his fall, which would've been instinctual." Letting out an amused hum, the redhead put down her brother's arm._

_"Interesting?! Interesting?!" Molly cried, "Sherlock is lying dead in front of you, and all you can say is interesting?! What kind of human are you?!"_

_"Not really." Lily responded automatically._

_The pathologist did a double take, "What are you saying –"_

_"What, Dr Hooper, would you have me say? Would you have preferred me pointing out your naivety for thinking you could help Sherlock Holmes fool the world and fake his death? Nothing you could've done would have prevented this from happening. I would blame you for it, but there's really no point." Lily's chilling words felt like an icicle stabbed straight into Molly's heart._

_"I – It wasn't – Sherlock – Moriarty – the plan…he wasn't – o-oh god, Sherlock is – "Molly choked. She put her hand to her forehead, which was starting to hurt dully. Her head spun and her stomach churned, and the florescent light felt overly bright, oh god -_

_"Molly Hooper, stop crying. Your guilt is unfounded. It is clear Sherlock never took the anesthetics you prescribed. He died because he deviated from the discussed plan. Obviously, it was a conscious decision on his part, and thus had nothing to do with you." Lily paused. "I need a moment alone with my brother."_

_"B-brother?" Molly stuttered, disbelief widening her eyes. She took a good look at the young woman standing in front of her. Sherlock and Lily looked virtually nothing alike, except maybe their mannerism. Still, this didn't keep the pathologist from flushing in shame that she had been spiteful and jealous of this woman. Molly sobbed. "I-I am so, so sorry, Miss Holmes."_

_Lily flicked her eyes up at the doctor, but she didn't correct her. "Have you called Mycroft?"_

_"Y-yes. Mr. Mycroft Holmes is listed as immediate next of kin."_

_"Good. Now leave."_

_Molly wiped at her cheeks once, tore her vinyl gloves from her hands and fled the room._

000

_No one spoke a word throughout the car ride; the only sound was the gentle rumble of the Grade A engine as the chauffeur carried it to its optimal performance. Anthea sat beside her employer, her fingers clicking away on her blackberry as always, but she was only paying half a mind on her tasks (unusual of her, since she prided herself to be so attentive to her job). After all, one small mistake from her could mislead Mycroft to make an inept decision of massive proportions. Yet today…today, she could make an exception._

_Anthea watched her boss from her peripheral vision. To the untrained eye and even most trained ones, nothing appeared amiss of the man who was British Government. His stone cold mask never wavered and his posture revealed no distress. But Anthea's eyes were not fooled. To her credit, she had spent the last ten years observing the man sitting next to her for a living. It was her job to be able read him like no one else, and she knew that he could feel her scrutiny, but she didn't care. His current state required her utmost attention, and she must tread carefully because in this particularly moment in time, Mycroft Holmes' mind and magic were tightly wound together, dangerously taunt like strings on his brother's Stradivarius. If she plucked too hard, he would snap, and the backlash – both emotional and magical – could hit her, quite literally, in the face._

_Which is why, Anthea sent one last text and pocketed her blackberry. "I've cancelled everything for today." Being cautious of Mycroft's mood was one thing, but it didn't mean that she had to stop asserting herself. Part of what made her so excellent at her job was that she knew exactly when to apply pressure, how to apply it and to what degree. "Do not argue with me." She added when her boss opened his mouth to rebut her. She was using her 'wife' voice – proven through experience to be the most efficient when dealing with complicated family matters, even though she was not technically his spouse._

_Daringly, Anthea laid a hand on his. As his PA, this was a practice she rarely exercised within her professional capacity for obvious reasons, and Mycroft Holmes never showed reciprocation of any sort, not that she would ever expect him to. Doing what he does, the Job forbad him to be that kind of a man. The fact that he allowed her to touch him at all while in the car with the driver and another MI6 agent in the front seat was usually good enough luxury for the both of them. Today however, Mycroft turned his hand over and locked his fingers with Anthea's as soon as her fingertips grazed his skin, boldly and in disregard for watchful eyes. It was as if he had been waiting, waiting and craving her touch, that at the first instant of contact he latched onto her, so starved for comfort and affection that he had been tipped over the limit of his control._

_Anthea was trained enough to choke down the gasp of surprise bubbling at her throat. She didn't turn to look at him, just stared at the hand in between them, and squeezed back gently._ I am here, James. I am here.

_The rest of the ride went in silence until they finally pulled up to the closest entrance of St. Barts that would lead them to the morgue. Mycroft had his hands wrapped tightly around Anthea's as he pulled her along with him towards the examination room. They took the stairs, because the elevator was too slow, and Mycroft was on the verge of hexing anyone that dared to get in his way. His umbrella had morphed back into a wand that he clutched tightly in his hand. He didn't worry that Muggles saw him carrying a suspicious looking piece of wood around a public hospital. Muggles were unobservant, ignorant, self-denying morons anyway. They wouldn't notice a thing._

_The sobbing could be heard even before they rounded the corner. Anthea yanked Mycroft into a halt before he could charge at the pathologist with his questions. The poor girl was a wreck as it was, huddled there on the floor outside the morgue doors, knees drawn to her chest and her face buried in her arms. But if she was crying like this… that could only mean…. Anthea felt something cold and hard drop into her gut. The hand she had on Mycroft's arm slipped weakly down to her side._

_Mycroft narrowed his eyes skeptically. No, it can't be. Lily promised she would take care of everything. She was unlike them, possibly more powerful than him and Sherlock combined. She wouldn't let anything happen to Sherlock. He is her brother. She loved Sherlock. She cared…didn't she? Besides, she promised…_

_He grabbed Molly by one arm and hauled her to her feet. "Where is Sherlock?" He demanded, staring straight into Molly's puffy red eyes. The pathologist shrank under his dark, penetrating gaze. Opening her mouth, she tried to speak, but a pathetic broken little whimper came out instead. "Where is HE?!" Mycroft's thundering voice echoed in the empty corridor. Anthea closed her eyes. She had already accepted what her employer couldn't, no matter what the evidence told him._

_The pathologist's face crumbled as she broke down into another fit of tears. "I'm sorry."_

_Mycroft released her and let her slump against the wall and slide down to the floor again. Her anguish was loud and painful to listen to as she bawled. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft entered into the examination room._

000

_Shortly before Mycroft Holmes arrived at the morgue, three figures stood around the body of Albus Severus Potter otherwise known as Sherlock Holmes. Two females, a blonde and a redhead, and one male._

_"There, I marked him down, in pencil, as requested." The blonde said to the redhead. Dressed in a professional looking suit and glasses she looked like a (rather hot) uptight librarian. Inside her hands, she held leather bound notebook, with loose golden threads hanging from it. "You owe me one."_

_"I know, I know," Lily shook her head, "but he's my brother, what choice do I have? Besides, it's only temporary. It won't change the grand scheme of things. "_

_The blonde sighed, "I spoil you way too much. Don't ask me to do this again. I already have enough to worry about. Now, where is this little jerk that wasted so much of my time? Let me see him."_

_Lily put the old medicine bag she'd been holding onto the table and opened it. Bright, pure white light shone from within. The man and the blonde leaned in closer and examined the light._

_"Huh." The man tilted his head in contemplation. Slim and pale, his angular face and slightly crooked nose are accentuated by his taut papery skin and sunken cheeks. Thin black hair matched equally black eyes and the solemn suit. In his left hand he clutched a black cane. "I was expecting something more…formidable. Still, I can see something in him that reminds me of your father. Snarky, I'll give him that much. Why is he looking at me like that?"_

_Lily rolled her eyes, "He's trying to deduce you. It's not working and it's frustrating him."_

_The blonde reached a hand into the bag, almost as if she's petting the light, "I don't know, look at those cheekbones. I think he's kind of an adorable little soul – Ow!" She yanked her hand back and stared at it in shock._

_Lily couldn't help the smirk that breeched her lips, "Oh sorry, I should've warned you. Albus bites." Lily lowered her eyes to the light, "Oh shush you. Don't look so smug. Treasure this moment brother, because this is the last of any communication you're going to get for the next seven days – oh can't I? Just watch me. Try not to get too bored – well, if you're going to be like that. Goodbye, Albus. And you're welcome." Lily snapped the lash shut, and smiled at her companions, "Enough of him, don't you think."_

_The blonde sighed a breath of relief, "Quite. He was starting to give me a headache. Well, I'm out of here. Better get back to work before my sisters start to complain again." She rolled her eyes exaggeratedly._

_Lily smirked and gestured between herself and the man standing next to her, "We've both got brothers. He's got three and I've got two. Would you like to trade?"_

_The blond scoffed, "What? And deal with this." She wiggled her fingers at Sherlock's dead body, "I don't think so. Speaking of which, you still haven't told me why he has to die."_

_"Snipers were targeting his friends. If he didn't jump, they'd kill them." Lily stroked her chin ponderously, "Although, if it had just been the old lady and the police inspector, I hardly think Albus would do something so drastic. Mostly it's the ex-army doctor. Albus denies it, but I can tell, he's positively in love with that _Dr. Watson_." The last part came out with a bored eye roll and a scowl of distaste._

_"Ugh, humans." The blond agreed. Tucking her notebook under her arm, she straightened her suit jacket, "Right then. Back to work for my darling sisters. Cut the threads they say. You're always so slow, they say."_

_Lily smiled, "They are just teasing. At least they've stopped calling you Aisa. Give my love to them won't you, Atropos."_

_"Oh I will. Be sure to visit, sweetie." Atropos tapped Lily daintily under the chin and waved goodbye at the man. Once Aisa literally vanished on the spot, Lily turned to the man standing next to her._

_"Thank you for letting me do this," The young witch lowers her head humbly, "I know this is breaking the rules."_

_The man drawls, "Well, some rules were meant to be broken. How long do you wish to keep your brother's soul detached like this?"_

_"A week. The goal is to make the wizard believe Albus is dead and he will not believe until he has examined Albus's body himself. I suspect he will break into St. Bart's very soon to conduct a magical autopsy. After that, we'll have to bury him; it's just another precaution."_

_The thin, bony man shifted his cane in his hand, "This wizard, tell me about him." He didn't need to ask her; he already knew everything there is to know, but he wanted to test his young, green apprentice. To his utter pleasure, she didn't disappoint. Lily paused only for a moment, something shifting inside her, and when she opened her lips, information spilled out readily though she has never met this wizard, never spoken to him, never been spoken to about him. Her mentor watched as she took in a sharp breath, the stimulation of her raw powers overwhelming her senses, and when her pupils dilated, he knew that she had opened her eyes to a world that only the two of them could see._

_On the outside, none of the Potter children resembled each other that much in their looks. Sure, they shared some similarity in the little things, like their artful brows for instance. From Albus's wild black curls, sharp cheekbones and even sharper green eyes to James's brown locks and baby blues to Lily's flaming red tresses and metallic amber iris, overall, nobody would say they looked very alike. Yet standing there, wearing a mask of stony apathy and her eyes acute with vigilance, every essence in Lily screamed 'Holmes'. The three of them, Mycroft, Sherlock and Lily, when each immersed in the depth of their Work, possessed a quality uncanny in its resemblance, that John – who soaked in every last detail of the memory before him – struggled to find the right words to describe. All that came to mind was alive._

_"Colonel Sebastian Moran, 33 years old, an ex-French military operative. Half-blooded. Muggle father, conveniently also of military background. Witch mother. She fell off the radar of the French Ministry quite some time ago, just days before the order of her incarceration was issued on the basis of her continuous and progressing associations with the dark arts. She came from a respectable background, third cousin to the Delacroix's, or else the French Ministry would've arrested her much sooner. Unfortunately, try as they might to protect her family name, once it was undeniable that she was allying with demons," Lily scoffed, apparently finding the idea incredibly tedious and stupid, "they had no other choice. Idiots. When they came to their senses, she was already gone._

_"Moran's father was killed by her when she was secured and hidden in the Muggle world and had no more use of him. Not surprising. Can't imagine a woman like that to be a Muggle sympathetic. To blend in, Moran was put through the French Muggle education system – since his father was rather a prominent military figure - but to keep him hidden, Moran's mother casted spells to avoid detection from local magical academies when her son was old enough to be put to school. This did nothing to hinder his magical development, regrettably. Naturally talented, Moran was brought up under the influence of incredible dark arts and…demon blood. In other words, if my brothers thought the death of 'Jim Moriarty' had fixed their biggest problem, then they are very sorely mistaken."_

_"Well done." The man appraised. "Very well done." Lily's grasp on omniscience progressed faster than any of her predecessors. Hell, thought the mentor, if poor Tom had done half as well, Lily wouldn't even be standing here today. But of course, he knew from the start Tom was doomed to fail. He was hoping Albus Dumbledore could keep the boy on the straight and narrow but alas, Tom was too emotional, too cocky, and unacceptably ambitious –all fine traits of a dark wizard sure, but quite unsuitable for this line of work. Still, it was sad to see a pupil deteriorate like that. Tom Riddle had been so bright._

_The mentor shifted his cane in his hand and said as an afterthought, "What did you do with Richard Brooke's soul?"_

_"I gave him to Tessa. She's competent enough." Lily shrugged, "He wanted escape, so I let him. After centuries of being stuck together with Jim Moriarty, I think he finally received the afterlife he deserved. He wasn't terrible man. The pearly white gates should be waiting for him."_

_"Are you going to tell your brothers what you know about Moran and Moriarty?"_

_Lily tilted her head, smirking slightly, "Now I know for sure you're testing me. This is their fight after all. I do believe I've helped them enough. Oh before I forget," She handed her mentor her medicine bag, "I'll come back for him in a week."_

_The man's dark obsidian eyes swept over her. "I assume you wish to keep this little transaction unknown to your father."_

_"Like everything regarding myself and my brothers, I do prefer he remains unaware." Lily confirmed._

_"Very well. He will not hear it from me or any of our reapers, but if he gains knowledge of your brother's 'death' through other sources and inquires after it, I am, as you know, obliged to be truthful to him."_

_"I understand." The young woman sighed. Her brows twitched slightly, the only sign that she is upset, "but I don't think he will. I mean look at me; even after all this time, he has never inquired after me, which…is for the best of course. What I do now…what I am now, It wouldn't have pleased him at all."_

_The man nodded, "Someday, this is all going to come out. Nothing stays hidden forever, Lily. Now, if you please," The man held out his right hand, "the ring."_

_Lily pulls from her index finger a white opal ring and the man slides it back onto his thin bony one. "You have done great work for me, Lily. Your potential is greater than any Apprentice of mine ever had." He smiled just very slightly then, but it was a cold terrible smile, "One day, I hope there is only one of us left wearing it, and I hope it's you."_

_Lily's smile reflects her mentor's, "I won't disappoint, Death."_

_"Right then, business is over, I am hungry. Would you like some pizza? There is a pizzeria down the street. It's not as good as the one from Chicago, but still very delicious."_

_Lily shook her head, "Hmm pizza. I'll be with you in a just a second. I can feel my oldest brother coming down the hall, and I have unfinished business with him."_

_The Horseman shrugged, "Suit yourself", and vanished._

000

_Mycroft Holmes burst into the morgue seconds after the Death vacated the room. His residual power lingered in the vicinity, and like moth to flame it surged towards the only living energy in this room. Cold, electric tendrils singed against Mycroft's magic, rendering him frozen in his steps._

_Lily greeted her brother without turning around, "I'm sorry James. I tried." She hung her head, pretending to cry. Neither she nor Albus had told James about their arrangement. He was as in the dark as Molly Hooper. Like the pathologist, Lily needed her oldest brother to play his part. His grief, like everyone else's in this whole ordeal, was a necessity, the final layer of proof set up for Moran. Lily had no doubt Moran would be able to search the thoughts of every one he could find immediately related to Sherlock Holmes, which was why even James couldn't be spared. Only Lily was allowed to know, not because her mind was infallible, but because she spent most of her time in a dimension where Moran could not find her. Though truth be told, Lily's intentions weren't entirely so objective either. You see, she was angry at her brother James, for putting Albus through this, and this was his punishment. She'd tell him the truth in due time, because he needed to be in the loop if he was to assist Albus in his mission (she for one was wiping her hands clean of these two idiots the minute Albus's soul was back in his body), but right now she wanted him to writhe and suffer just a little bit. Lily understood why Mycroft did what he did – Moriarty had plans that involved more than just arsenals of weapons of mass destruction, his hold extended beyond that of the muggle world, beyond even the wizarding world into territories of other supernatural beings – in the end Mycroft was just trying to do the right thing, but his foolish decision to act independently without consulting Albus before he betrayed him to the enemy and only informing him after the fact was a mistake Lily wanted him to remember for the rest of his life. Albus is family, and you don't sell out your family, ever._

_"We should say goodbye."_

_"Goodbye? What do you mean goodbye?" Mycroft leaned against the stainless cabinets, pressing himself urgently into it, as if trying to disappear. From his position, he could see the tuffs of dark curls, matted and limp with dried blood, against pale hollow cheeks. Closed eyes. Blue lips. A prone naked form under the stark white sheets. A corpse. No. This is a trick. It has to be. A very excellently orchestrated illusion. A deception._

_A trembling hand came up to hold his forehead. His mind hummed with erratic waves of information, the doors to his memory files exploding open as he rummaged through every piece of knowledge, data, statistic he had stored in there. The gears spun faster and faster; his heart pumped harder, the blood rushing upwards bearing heat that burned like the heat of hellfire. Mycroft reeled in the whirlwinds of deductions, conclusions leaping from observations, possibilities after possibilities. The humming swelled._

No please.

_Suddenly there was nothing. Everything was silent save the white static of his own burnt-out mind. Fingers he didn't realize had been clenched into fists loosened their grip. Mycroft opened his eyes, confused for just a fraction of a second, suspended in the calm before the storm, before the climactic end of his deductions detonated in the depth of his psyche._

_Sherlock Holmes is dead._

_Lily closed her eyes as her brother – the great, untouchable Mycroft Holmes – crumbled._

_"James!" Anthea burst into the room, and made a beeline towards the man. Grabbing him by the shoulders, she looked over him frantically, searching for any signs of hurt. Her palms found his ashen cheeks, and she repeated his name, trying to call him back to her. "James, James love, look at me, look at me." But James couldn't. His speech was slurred and jumbled, incoherent rubbish for all intents and purposes. Gone was the articulate, composed man that stood firm against everything, a pillar of fortitude for the British nation. This wasn't right. James can't be like this. He can't. Anthea whipped around, and her Malfoy temper flared at the sight of Lily Potter standing there unaffected, like stone. "What did you do to him?! Lily Morgana Potter, what have you DONE?!" Her gaze landed on the man lying on the table. "O-oh. Oh Merlin. Merlin. Albus…no…."_

_Anthea blinked rapidly as the tears sprung unbidden to her eyes. She clutched at James harder, wrapped her arms around him as though he would be dead too if she let go. "You said you would help him! You promised! PROMISED!"_

_"I'm sorry," whispered Lily softly. This was beyond the level of pain she had expected. For a moment, she almost felt guilty. "I couldn't help him. It was his time."_

_Mycroft stood glued to the spot, trembling visibly in Anthea's arms, unwilling or perhaps unable to examine his brother's in close detail. He heard his sister sigh and watched in horror as she took the white sheet in her hands, and drew it gently over their deceased sibling's face, closing the curtain on the tragedy of his life. Mycroft found that he couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Numbly, he pulled away from Anthea, heedless of her distressed 'don't' and took a step forward, and then another, and then another, until he drew within an arm's reach of Sherlock's feet. Gingerly, he reached out a hand and wrapped it around Sherlock's left ankle through the sheets, the same ankle he had healed himself after Albus broke it his first year at Hogwarts, running through the Forbidden Forest with Rose and Scorpius. Albus begged him, one of the handfuls of times he ever did in his whole life, because he didn't want to go to Madame Pomphrey, because if he did, their father was sure to find out that he's been out causing mischief again. The Headmistress had already sent four letters home in the short 2 months he'd been attending school. Albus hated disappointing Harry._

_James bent over, sobbing soundlessly into the white sheet. He knew that the only child in the family that Harry was really going to be disappointed with, and possibly never forgive, was himself._

_Lily laid a hand on her brother's back, "We should tell Mummy. Somebody should start arranging for the funeral."_

Oh Merlin, Mummy. What are we going to tell Mummy? She will be devastated!_ "I'll do it." He whispered. If anybody deserved the punishment of their mother's wrath and grief, it was him._

_His sister refused, "No. I'll do it. I think it's for the best. You need to pull yourself together, James, I'll come to see you tomorrow. Ani, take him home."_

_The redhead stepped away from the man kneeling at his brother's feet, broken and distraught. She shook herself free of the dense, suffocating emotion that had wrapped itself around her. In a few hours, all hell will break loose in the Weasley-Potter household, and then all of the wizarding England (possibly wizarding Europe) will know the tragedy that had befallen her family, yet again. Harry leaving so abruptly and arbitrarily fifteen years ago, and now Albus's violent, gory death and blackened reputation, their mother is going to need someone to hold onto, to lean on. It can't be James; he's too broken himself, so it'll have to be Lily. Death, she had never had a trouble facing, but of everything that Lily Potter could do, she was not a liar. Though for Albus's sake, she was going to have to be._

000

The scene in front of John faded into smokes of grey and blue. Mycroft, Anthea, Lily – their figures disappeared. The cabinets and the doors, and the florescent lights melted away into nothing. Yet, here he still is, covered from head to toe in stark white sheet, lying on the autopsy table.

Why was he still there?

John let out a breath he didn't know he was holding in. He is standing in front of the slab, opposite to where Lily would've been. He hadn't moved from this spot since the memory appeared before him. He couldn't move because it hurt way too much. Everything. Even breathing seemed unbearably painful when he looked down at the calm, pale, _beautiful _face, so peaceful and still it was almost surreal. Sherlock, on a good day, was an activated electron, always so ready to jump and react with everything. On bad day, he was still an electron moving through its electron cloud, because electrons couldn't stop moving. When it does, a phenomenon called the Bose-Einstien condensate occurring at zero degrees Kelvin would cause the atom to lose its chemical property, its identity, and everything that makes it what it is.

Sherlock Holmes was an electron. He should be unstoppable. He doesn't belong on this metal slab, all quiet and immobile, no snark or deduction ready to throw at unsuspecting strangers. He belonged out there in the battle fields of London or in the warm nestle of Baker Street with his experiments, and most importantly, he belonged with John.

He belonged with John.

"My detective." The ex-army doctor whispered. "I'm sorry. This was my fault. 'Alone is all I have, alone is what protects me' – I made you vulnerable, when you were impenetrable. Should've…" John swallowed thickly, "should've just let them shoot me. It's nothing that I haven't gone through before. London needs you. Who's going to fight its battles if you're gone?"

A figure appeared behind him, but the doctor did not notice.

John laughs nervously, "I don't know why I'm talking to an imaginary corpse, when you're alive and well. I guess it's just so much easier to speak when you're so quiet… why didn't you come back? Why did I have to wait for three years? I guess I should be grateful that you came back at all…but…if…" John drew in a sharp breath and wiped at his face tiredly, gathering his words. His heart pounded rapidly, "if what Lily said is true, if you really…_l-love me…_then why?"

"John." A hand landed gently on the doctor's shoulder. A warm body slid behind him, pressing against his back invasively. John felt soft curls brush against his ear and he let out a small sigh.

"I can feel you. You're not a figment of some memory." The doctor turned around face to face with the detective standing behind him, and he felt a large warm hand come up against the small of his back holding him in place. They were standing so close, almost nose to nose if Sherlock weren't so freakishly tall that the tip of John's nose only managed to graze his chin. While the detective had never paid much attention to John's personal space before, this position was certainly unprecedentedly intimate, and it was doing all sorts of strange things to John. Strangely however, he wasn't having a crisis of sexual identity. Everything was sort of calm in his head, accepting. Why?

"This is your sister's mind. How did you get in here?" John grinned.

Sherlock grinned back and shrugged, "the perks of being older, is that you always have dirt on your younger sibling stored away for when you want to bully them into doing something. Mycroft exploits this fact to no end, as you know. When you weren't waking up, it was quite clear where you had gone." Then his face turned serious, "John, what you said, it's not true. You don't make me vulnerable –"

John shook his head, "You don't have to defend me, Sherlock, I know that I drag you down most of the time on a case anyway, always just one step behind you –"

"John. Shut. Up." Sherlock frowned, "you make me a better man, my better half. Ask anyone. Lestrade would certainly agree with you. So you see why I had to jump. I couldn't let Moriarty take away my better half."

"Then why did you stay away? Why didn't you come back?" John blinked, a strange sense of déjà vu overcoming him. He ignored it.

"You saw the memories; you must know that there is man named Moran." Sherlock grimaced almost guiltily. The wrinkles around his grey-green eyes deepened, and they almost appeared haunted for a moment. "I had to take him down, as well as the rest of Moriarty's network. His empire is vaster than I had anticipated. It took longer than planned, and I couldn't come back because if he knew I was still alive, your life would be endangered."

"You could've taken me with you. I could've helped you." Thinking of Sherlock out there all by himself for months on end, hiding from Moran and sleeping in under paths with the homeless sent a sharp chill down John's spine. He was all alone, with nothing but his mind and magic to keep him company. God, how easily he could've been killed. Why didn't he take John with him? Didn't he prove trustworthy enough?

"Stop it." Sherlock snapped, obviously able to deduce what was going on in John's mind, "I…considered it, I mean, I _did _consider it…but it wasn't like I was going on a vacation, it would've been selfish of me. If anything happened to you…I –" He paused suddenly, looking away. John could've sworn Sherlock appeared guilty. But guilty of what? He was hesitating at something, like he was about to reveal something much more important, but nothing came. Sherlock shook himself free of the sudden sober ambiance and smiled, "I'm back now, and it's over. Everything is fine."

John frowned, "What? What is it? Sherlock –"

"Shh, John. It's nothing." Sherlock dragged a long finger over John's slightly stubbled cheeks, and the tender sensation effectively short circuited any logical processing in John's head. Damn Sherlock. "It's over, and I'm so tired of waiting, aren't you? Pupil's dilated, increase respiration. I thought so." he leaned a little closer, his green eyes clear and polish like shards of pale jade, holding John in its mesmerizing depth. "Can I please kiss you now?" His hold against John's back tightened, pulling him closer.

John tilted his head up and whispered, "I think I would be very upset if you didn't."

It was the tenderest feeling. Sherlock's lips, despite being somewhat chapped and cut, were generally soft against his, and his moved slowly, lovingly. John's head was buzzing with a pleasant hum, and he wondered if Sherlock felt the same. God, he was never going to get tired of this, and he's pretty certain that he never wanted to kiss another pair of lips again. It was so familiar, the feeling, as if they've done it before. There was no awkwardness on either their parts, surprising so for Sherlock (I mean he is called The Virgin for a reason…). The detective knew exactly how to kiss him; those talented lips covered his expertly, coaxing all sorts of fabulous sensations from him. In reciprocation, John found that he was rather good at this as well, judging by the way the detective made a low sort of moan that rumbled in his chest, obviously an encouraging sign –

"For the love of Merlin you two!" A sharp female cry broke them apart. "Get your arses out of my head before you starting shagging right inside my memory chamber! You've already scarred me enough. "

Lily appears beside them, throwing her hand up in frustration. Her eyes narrowed as Sherlock pulled John closer and whispered rather hotly in his ear, probably something sinfully inappropriate judging by the way the doctor shuttered and buried his face against Sherlock's neck to hide his blaming cheeks. Lily almost gagged.

Smirking, Sherlock grabbed John, and vacated his sister's mind.

000

Lily opened her eyes, the chambers of her mind empty of her annoying brother and his doctor, and the doors to her mind locked. In the corner of her bedroom, Mycroft sat patiently waiting by the window. "Well, that went well."

Lily rolled her eyes, "A little too well." Swing her legs off the bed, she sauntered over the window and took a seat opposite to him, "what are we going to do? Albus obviously has no intention of telling John the truth. The poor doctor doesn't remember a thing, does he?"

Mycroft rubbed his eyes tiredly, "Not a thing. When Ani went to Baker Street, she said John's memory had been completed wiped clean of the last three weeks' event. I suppose we could just leave it. Moran is dead, Moriarty is dead. What's the point of opening up old wounds?"

Lily leaned back against her arm chair and crossed her legs, "the point, James, is that I have no idea how well the Obliviation was done. Had Albus been in his normal condition, we wouldn't have to worry about a thing, but he wasn't in his best condition was he? He was _dying, _again! There is a good chance that the obliviation wouldn't keep; I can already feel it when John was inside the memory chamber."

"You could've told him everything. Why didn't you?" Mycroft crossed his legs and drummed his fingers against the side of the armchair, something he did very often when his mood was foul.

"I didn't feel it was my place," Lily looked at her hands, "but mostly, I didn't how to. I mean, what was I supposed to say? 'Hey John, guess what? I lied. Richard Brooke was actually real; he was just some poor idiot being possessed by Moriarty. Moriarty was _actually_ a creature from hell, trapped inside his vessel unable to detach from it. Oh it was _actually _Richard Brooke who shot himself in the mouth, because the poor sod thought doing so would kill both himself and the demon inside. Well he was wrong. Oh by the way, Albus actually came back three weeks ago, and during that time, you and my idiot brother have been running around trying to track down the demon Moriarty and the dark wizard Moran, who are the last two members of the otherwise fallen Moriarty Empire. And the reason why you don't remember any of this is because your best friend, Sherlock, _may _have almost died again, and he _may _have tried to erase all of your memories so you wouldn't have to suffer the pain of losing himself _again_.'" Lily folded her arms in front of her, "How well you do you think he's going to react to that, James?"

The elder Potter stared at his sassy little sister with one raised eyebrow and an expression that spoke volumes of how much he didn't appreciate her sarcasm. After a long moment of silence, Mycroft sighed and leaned forward to place his chin on his crossed hands, "So, what do we do?"

Lily picked up the remote control and turned on the Muggle telly on her wall. A late night repeat of an earlier BBC new broadcast was on, and the picture of John's face was featured left of the screen, while the broadcaster spoke with one Detective Inspector Lestrade. Mycroft's eyes analyzed the officer like a laser scan: a small nick from shaving against his jaw (didn't go home, spent the night at the Yard, disposable razor), coffee stain on his cuff at least 24 hours old (late night, case not going well), no ring (so the divorce finalized at last), bags under his bloodshot eyes (again, lack of sleep, worried).

"_Doctor John Watson has been missing for three weeks. The department is doing everything we can to find him. It's not time yet to assume the worst. No one, certainly not my team, is giving up._" Lestrade told the reporters.

"Yes, James," Lily flicked her wrist and the telly shut off, "what do we do indeed?"

* * *

**AN:** _Okay. Are you confused? Because I feel like in an attempt to try and make things more clear, I may or may not have made things more confusing. Which is kind of the point: _ _So many layers of the onions, how will I peel them all?_ :) _Some things you might be wondering about: I've mentioned multiple times that Harry 'left' when the Potter kids when young, and I haven't ever went into details about this. I _probably _might touch on it, later on in the story, but I feel like that could be a fiction all on its own. Secondly, the end of this chapter shed some light in regards to Moriarty and Richard Brookes. Seems like Lily is contradicting herself isn't she? She tells John one thing, but clearly the situation is not how she explained it to John. So what will happen? XD We shall see… Thank you for reading once again, and please drop a review to let me know what you think. _:)_  
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